Creating a Mind
by summerartist
Summary: News of Bashir's genetic enhancements has spread and he must discover if he can make peace with his abilities. A catastrophic event causes him to reevaluate who he truly is.
1. Chapter 1

Author Notes: Writing this story was an utter indulgence for me, so I apologize in advance if this gets a little silly. Feedback is welcome.

The time frame this fic takes place in is somewhere in the midst of season 5. The reason for Garak's behavior in this chapter will be explained. On a different note, DS9 gets away with a lot of creative episodes. I wanted to play along, especially given my background.

My stories constantly toe the line between Gen and Pre-slash, so I will leave that up to your interpretation.

* * *

After a week of Bashir's genetic status becoming known, things had returned to normal. At least Dr. Bashir considered them to be normal. Officers had stopped asking him questions. The more curious had stopped watching him whenever he ventured onto the promenade. Those who did not approve of his way of life had resumed ignoring him. There had been a few outraged former patients, and a few who had acted prejudiced towards him, but they had been either made to see reason or completely avoided him. Things were relatively quiet.

Oddly enough, Garak and Chief O'Brien were some of the few that acted strangely around him. Bashir had no doubt that their friendship would regain normalcy. In the meantime, their interactions were awkward. Chief O'Brien behaved as if any wrong move around Bashir would set off a chain reaction. It was like he was expecting Bashir to snap at him for not having the same mental superiority. Garak had even dialed back his usual sarcastic banter. Their conversations were a shadow of their former color and life.

It was beginning to irritate the doctor, and it was starting to feel as if he had lost the friends he had made on Deep Space Nine. He began to push their social interactions. He had reasoned to himself that a discomforted response was better than no response at all. He began by making smart comments, laden with heavy sarcasm and the aloofness that others might have expected coming from his kind. The doctor showed off his intellectual prowess and hand eye coordination. He endeavored to impress and awe in all fields of study in front of his two friends.

Today was the day he and Garak had lunch together. Bashir had a surprise prepared. He was going to nitpick the statistics behind the plot of their latest shared reading. It was another Cardassian war book, and Bashir was going to tell the tailor how the odds and statistics of the victors did not match. They wordlessly took their place in the line at the Replimat. Garak had given the doctor a vague smile of greeting.

"Well, how goes life in the infirmary? Station-wide colds keeping you busy?"

"Hardly." Bashir chuckled softly. "How about the tailoring business?"

"Fruitful as ever, doctor. It has its usual merits."

"Ah." Julian said knowingly.

They had moved up to the front of the line. Garak had waved Bashir to a spot ahead of him. Julian ordered Tarkalean tea with a meat soup and a veggie-laden salad. He waited for the Cardassian to order while he balanced the tray lightly in his hands.

"Doctor, the table!"

Julian glanced over and saw that their usual spot was being eyed by several Bajorans. They started to inch towards it.

The doctor scurried over and sat down before they could look twice. The table had the best view of the promenade and the open space was an agreeable addition for Garak's comfort. The Cardassian had started to become more claustrophobic of late, and the doctor was doing his best to accommodate him. Bashir sipped at his tea while he waited for Garak to join him at the table.

"So, how was The Painted Planet?" The tailor asked without preamble.

He sat down as gracefully as a snake undulating in the chair opposite to Bashir. The Cardassian did not scoot his chair over beside him. It was a minor detail, but a notable one. When Garak had a trying day or would feel the need to relax he would scoot his chair closer so they would not be staring each other down. When they were on opposite sides, Garak was feeling playful and argumentative.

"It wasn't very believable."

"Certainly. What were its other qualities?"

Bashir looked blank for a moment.

"Surely you must have an opinion on the art of its narration, or were you too busy calculating up the war tallies?"

Bashir blinked. Garak scoffed.

"I knew it. My dear doctor, you must cease being so insufferably predictable. I lent you the file to appeal to the human part of you and not the computer."

Bashir looked at him with mild effrontery. That had been an uncharacteristically low blow from his friend.

"Oh, so am I a computer now?" The doctor snapped.

He was irritated that all of his plans had gone awry, but also caught off guard that Garak had finally addressed his genetic enhancements. The Cardassian could have addressed the topic in a less condescending manner.

"Ever since it's come out that you're genetically enhanced, you've been showing off at every opportunity." Garak frowned at him.

Bashir's eyes widened fractionally.

"Why should that matter? Are you envious? Or perhaps disappointed that you hadn't spotted it before?"

"I knew." Garak protested. He cast a disconcerted look at Bashir.

"Did you? Why didn't you say anything?" Bashir raised his eyebrows.

He set down his teacup and looked at his friend inquiringly. Garak's expression gave nothing away, but he sounded a trifle meek. It was uncharacteristic of his usual boldness.

"Very well, I didn't know. But I am far from envious, doctor."

Was it just his imagination, or was Garak looking betrayed?

"Most people would jump at the chance of knowing what I know."

"I count myself lucky that my brain not altered in any fashion."

That hint of betrayal on Garak's face deepened. Bashir picked up on this reaction curiously. The Cardassian was showing petty bigotry, which was not something the doctor would have expected from Garak of all people.

The tailor had not touched his meal, just stared at Bashir is if he did not know what to make of him yet. It was the most uncomfortable Bashir had ever seen him. Bashir was the turncoat now, the Judas that befriended the secretive tailor only to best him at his own game of deception. It must have been alarming to the former spy. Bashir felt that there was another emotion Garak was keeping from him. This snobbish behavior was just a Trojan horse for what the Cardassian was actually feeling. The tailor was upset about some other aspect of his genetic enhancements. The doctor pushed on, relentless. He had to get this out in the open now, not where it would be left to fester and create a rift between them.

"Why? Why is it so bad? And don't tell me it's because it's illegal. I know you don't have much personal respect for the law."

"Because it lacks finesse!" The tailor said loudly.

Several people had started to stare at them.

"Finesse?" Bashir snorted incredulously.

"Yes! I can accept the cold calculation of a spy or an interrogator, but you having been acting the part of the machine. At first I merely thought it was your attempt to get a rise out of me but you are starting to play the part as skillfully as a seasoned actor."

Conversation had died down in the Replimat. People were glancing at them out of the corner of their eyes. Bashir gave a huff of frustration when he saw that they had an audience.

"So, what you're telling me is that you don't think I have any humanity left?" Bashir asked softly.

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

"Doctor, forgive my way of having addressed this issue. I was pointing out that you have been trying too hard to make you enhancements noticeable. I did not say that you were without feeling."

The tailor was speaking in a more amiable tone. Gone was the former contrition. Bashir started to think he had only imagined the momentary animosity between them. Still, the Cardassian seemed edgy, like he was hiding something from Bashir. He dropped the subject of the book altogether and they started to discuss things like the latest staff additions on Deep Space Nine and Cardassian politics.

As lunch continued on, Bashir noticed the Cardassian's slight wariness around him. It was lingering in his eyes, hand gestures, and overall demeanor. Bashir knew how Cardassians regarded body language, and Garak's posture and movement all echoed a feeling of uncertainty. Did Garak really think he was similar to a computer? That thought bothered Bashir more than he could say. He had been warm and friendly from day one towards everyone on Deep Space Nine. Did Garak think that it was all an act? Of course the tailor had clarified that Bashir had feelings, but that was not an adequate evaluation by the doctor's standards.

He wondered what he could do to reassure Garak that he expressed genuine feelings. More importantly, he needed some method to prove it to himself. In many ways, he was a computer. He was quick and efficient. He was capable of higher functions and stringing together theories as quickly as a machine could. A computer could be taught to imitate virtually anything. Had he really begun to become so indifferent and calculating beneath the surface that he appeared inhuman?

The memory of their heated discussion niggled at Julian. The question of how to go about proving Bashir's humanity remained uncertain, but ideas started to form. The arts were important to Garak. The Cardassian spent every undercover assignment in some creative capacity. He had been a gardener and enjoyed the art of garden landscape and color coordination. As a tailor, he kept up that eye for color. Music was also near and dear to him. Perhaps if Julian could prove to Garak that he had the same sort of creative soul, the tailor would not question Julian's emotional capacity.

The doctor knew that computers could be programmed to be creative. They could make music and art as well as any human could with the right formulas and randomization, but there were certain things about a creative process that a computer could not recreate. The process of creating something carried with it its own brand of endorphins. A computer could not experience that rigor, that passion that came with forming something that only a sentient being could.

When lunch ended and they had stood, disposing their dishes in the replicator, they gave each other a nod. Julian wore a large smile. The Cardassian tilted his head curiously when he saw that secretive grin on the doctor.

"Good day, my friend." Bashir touched his arm.

"And a good day to you, my dear doctor."

Garak's brow furrowed slightly when he saw Bashir walk off with a skip in his step. Julian was displaying signs of a drastic mood swing. He wondered what the doctor was suddenly so ecstatic about. Bashir had let Garak think what he may, for now, he had work to do.

* * *

"That isn't an easy commodity to come by."

Bashir gave Quark an unimpressed look. Before his next shift he had gone to the bar to place a complex order of goods from the bartender. Some of the equipment was not strictly legal, but it could pass under the radar in the name of science and high ranking security codes.

"It'll cost extra." The Ferengi warned him. His continence was that of a concerned friend, but a sheen of greed had shown in his eyes.

"Then tack on a small fee, but I want it by this evening if you can manage it."

"Agreed. Here's the contract."

Bashir scrolled though the form on Quark's PADD and added his thumbprint to the bottom of it. The Ferengi looked at the sealed deal and gave a smug smile. He stuffed the device in his pocket and gave the doctor a nod.

"It's a pleasure doing business with you." He paused. "Doctor, as a matter of curiosity, what are you going to do with this? Are you conducting some sort of brain research?"

Bashir shrugged.

"I guess you could say that. I'm not going to go around and start using it on civilians if that's what you're asking."

The Ferengi gave a laugh, but it sounded more like a nervous chuckle.

"Of course not."

Bashir gave the dartboard a fond glance on his way out. He looked back over to Quark.

"Just have it all sent up to my quarters."

The bartender hesitated. The doctor must be eager for those supplies to request a delivery.

"I'll send my brother over with it after his shift."

Quark gave him a parting incline of the head and Bashir had stepped out onto the busy promenade. After their conversation, Bashir had resumed work in the infirmary. He refiled several patient records and completed his tedious reorganization of medical supplies. It was some time before he was able to complete his shift. The hours dragged by, but Bashir was looking forward to starting his experiment. As soon as his shift ended and he left the infirmary in the hands of his capable nurses, he walked quickly to his quarters. The hallways were crowded, and he had to dodge around large groups of Starfleet officers to travel to his section of the habitat ring.

The door to his quarters was left wide open. Bashir frowned, spotting Rom and another Ferengi delivering large wooden boxes in through the main access door. The doctor approached.

"I thought Quark was going to have it left outside. You don't have the access codes to my room. How did you get in?" Bashir was suddenly quite worried with the breach in security. Just how secure were private station rooms?

Rom spun around, a guilty look on his face.

"M-my brother thought the merchandise might be stolen if we left it by the door. So I just rerouted the security locks from the main computer. D-don't worry, it'll be back online in a few minutes."

The other Ferengi brought in a large wrapped parcel. He nearly tipped over while bearing the weight of it.

"Here." Bashir reached out and took the object that was about to start dragging against the floor.

"I think I've got everything now. Thank you."

Rom nodded at him. He seemed about to say something else. He might have been about to wish him luck or express worry over his medical equipment like his brother had. Rom just shut his mouth and gave him a parting smile. As the two Ferengi scurried away, Bashir clutched the large parcel to his chest and stepped through to his rooms. Unfortunately, the door had decided to overlook Rom's tampering at that exact moment and resume its normal programming.

His mind froze, but his legs responded as quickly as a dancer reciting a rehearsal. Bashir threw his body into his main room using his forward momentum. The movement had been inhumanly fast, quicker than the blink of an eye. He breathed a sigh of relief when he arrived on the other side unscathed. The door snapped shut behind him. The changes to his genetics had managed to save him from injury once again. He had lost count of how many times his genetic enhancements had helped him out of precarious situations throughout his Starfleet career. It was an oddly ironic situation, given what he was about to try to prove to himself. His heart was still pumping erratically in accordance with the adrenaline provided by the near miss.

Setting his parcel down, Julian found the crate the Ferengi had dropped off near his coffee table. He carefully pried off the lid to the metallic crate. The box was heavy, protecting its varied contents. Balancing the weighty lid in one hand, he fumbled in the crate with the other. He pulled out a large metal cylinder with a cone at the end. It was a device meant to remove a brain implant. In the crate was also an implant device that he planned to put near his brain stem to record his own neural and synaptic relay.

A package lay alongside the technological devices. This parcel was much larger. He ripped open the plastic and an odd odor permeated the air. Not many human beings came in contact with this scent in this day and age. It was considered to be toxic, especially if one used the product as it would have been in the Terran Renaissance age. This was a slightly more current version, and lead free. An oily smell seeped through the air and Bashir gave a slight smile. It had been something he had only read about. Oil based paint was rare these days, especially since there were so many different substitute materials for it.

He picked up a tube of yellow ochre and opened the cap, spreading a thin film of it on his fingertips. It felt creamy and buttery. He had never touched the substance in this wet form before. He had drawn traditionally and with computer tools to make diagrams, charts, and graphs, but this was an entirely new way of creating something.

He proceeded to open the large cover to the canvas. The canvas was a dull white mapwork of gessoed fibers, an expanse waiting to be marked on. Bashir smiled fondly. He had always enjoyed new things, new possibilities, and fresh problems to solve. It was invigorating. He ran his fingertips over the edges of the cloth, enjoying the texture and the way the traces of dull yellow on his fingers smeared over the surface. He was well aware that those marks could easily be covered up later. In fact, he was planning on putting a wash of yellow ochre over the canvas to work in the forms before he started with the other colors. He had done some research of how this was traditionally done.

This was more of Garak's area than his. Hopefully, the Cardassian would have little room for doubt that Bashir's friendship was sincere and that the doctor was capable of human emotion and passion. The evidence from the implant would be a sort of final evaluation, a form of legitimate proof to his claim to humanity. Now Julian only had to decide where to start.

There was still the matter of what he should paint, and unfortunately Julian had no idea. He considered painting a figure but decided against it. This was a private project and he did not want a human model, nor did he feel like painting a figure from a photograph. He could paint an object or a still life, but he felt that painting a still life was dull and clinically precise. Julian wanted to paint something a little looser and with more motion. He needed something exciting or scenic. That left landscape or imaginative painting to choose from. Painting images from his head sounded nerve wracking or complex. Not that he minded complex things, only that Garak might not appreciate typical Terran nonobjective art.

He settled on painting a landscape, but he still had to decide what scene he wanted to depict. Julian wanted to paint Cardassian landscape, but the tailor would think that a cruel joke. Bashir could depict Earth landscape, but he was reluctant to for the same reasons Garak did not want to gaze upon a picture of Cardassia. It would make him homesick.

His mind conjured up images of ancient ruins, towering waterfalls, and glittering pools of water. Golden rooftops skimmed the skyline. Bajor was perfect. It was beautiful and a neutral subject matter, like the way someone would paint a pretty set of mountain ranges near their home. It was nearby and without hidden meaning besides being perfect for an extension of local landscape painting. The computer data banks had dozens of hologram images of the planet surface that he could reference while he painted.

Smirking to himself, Bashir wondered if he was a little crazy for doing this. Perhaps it would be a relaxing pursuit if nothing else. It was a good way of unwinding after his shifts at the infirmary. With a slight smile, Bashir started setting up the canvas and the portable easel it came with. He would spend a couple of his evenings humoring his curiosity.


	2. Chapter 2

When Bashir did not show up for his habitual game of darts with Chief O'Brien, the engineer became curious. Miles had certainly missed his fair share of games when family matters came up, but Julian rarely missed them unless he was hard at work. As far as Miles knew, the surgery had been relatively empty these days and Julian had been avoiding doing research projects until public shock over his genetic status had blown over.

Things had been uncomfortable between them lately, and the engineer started to dread that maybe Julian was off somewhere sulking. The doctor could fight off deadly revolting diseases with his patients and clinically perform an autopsy. He could calmly and compassionately share bad news. However, when it came to personal relationships, Bashir could be extremely sensitive.

O'Brien knew how jaded and hurt the doctor could become due to a few angry or dismissive words from a friend. He bore rudeness without much comment, or he would pretend that he had misunderstood. Miles hated to admit it, but when they first gotten to know each other the engineer had thought of him as a bit of a social simpleton.

Miles had long since realized that Bashir's inappropriate observations and chatting had been a faked mental and social issue. Bashir had managed to lure him in with that front nonetheless. Perhaps the engineer knew deep down that he had not bought Bashir's feigned ignorance. Miles still felt a small pang of guilt when he remembered how coldly he had acted, and how Julian had known all along that Miles hated his company. The fact that Bashir had persisted to win him as a friend had been the first step to a sort of mutual respect. And now here the chief was, worrying and searching for the doctor all because he thought Julian might be a bit upset. Miles smirked. How times had changed.

As the Chief engineer walked through the corridor to the habitat ring, he received greetings from other Starfleet personnel. It was a short walk, and before he knew it he found himself just outside Bashir's door. He heard faint music playing. It almost sounded like something Klingon, but he supposed that he could have been hearing things.

"Julian?"

The sound ceased abruptly.

"It's unlocked."

Taking that as an invitation for his company, Miles activated the door and came in. He found controlled chaos. Bashir was painting. A canvas sat propped on an easel near his view screen and paint stained sheets lay on the floor. The doctor had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he worked. It was not the strangest thing Miles had caught him doing, but it was surprising nonetheless.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm proving a point." Bashir added an enthusiastic dab of lemon yellow to the rooftops of the buildings. He was laying down the oils with gusto and wild gesticulation like a sort of complex dance.

"To who?"

"Garak." An unidentifiable emotion leaked into Bashir's tone.

The Chief watched his friend for a few minutes. The doctor wielded the paintbrush with as much precision as a laser scalpel, but with a more relaxed demeanor. He worked over the large canvas gradually, bringing out the faint washes of color while making the surface buttery with paint. The colors were wild. There were all kinds of red, green, and blue shadows.

"Is it supposed to look like that?"

"Yes, this only the second layer. The colors are going to shine through to the top layer once I get there."

"Makes sense, I guess. Who are you giving it to?"

Bashir cleaned his brush in the paint thinner. He tilted his head as he peered at it, considering.

"I don't know. I was thinking Leeta, Major Kira, or Captain Sisko, but I'm tempted to keep it now. I can't rush this like I would a piece of research. That's partly why I'm doing this. I'm proving to Garak that I can enjoy the finer things in life, like the arts. "

The engineer raised an eyebrow. The strange friendship between Julian and the Cardassian had always baffled him, to the point where he consistently tried to steer clear of it. But avoiding the topic had become harder now that the doctor had effectively spent years in his company.

O'Brien sat down on the couch in the quarters, watching Bashir work. O'Brien made sure to avoid treading on the paint stained sheet on the floor. His sister had been a painter, so he knew how easily oil paint could stain anything and everything once it got on him. He had to admit that his curiosity was peaked. He wondered what had made Bashir determined to do something as big as this to prove a point to a mere friend. Something must have happened.

"So why the big show? Did you insult one of his outfits and he got offended?"

"We got into a row about my genetic enhancements."

"Ah." O'Brien said knowingly.

" 'Ah' is right. I thought that he of all people should understand why I kept it a secret. I thought he knew me and then he starts comparing me to a machine or computer. I'm starting to think that you're the only friend I have after my genetic status came out."

"That's a load of garbage and you know it."

"Hmmm." Bashir murmured non-committedly as he added a prussian blue shadow to the sky.

"Well, I best be off." The chief stood. "Good luck on your painting."

The doctor was too engrossed in his work to see him go.

"Thanks." Bashir muttered as he inched backward and forward to survey his work as a whole before he started adding more orange to the streets. The door shut, leaving the genius to his work.

* * *

"Good evening, Garak!" Bashir entered the Cardassian's shop the next day, beaming.

After a long morning at the infirmary and the majority of the evening spent working on his side projects, he had entered Garak's shop nearly bouncing on his heels with anticipation. The door chime rang as he entered and the doorway discreetly scanned him for weapons. Bashir had always noticed the scanner due to his heightened senses, but had never mentioned it to the tailor. The Cardassian must have some truly formidable adversaries to put something like that on the entrance of his shop. Today, Julian ignored it. He had much more important things to discuss with Garak than his past.

He found the tailor stitching a new Bajoran outfit. It looked as if he attempting to find a way to stitch the Bajoran crochet shawl to the neckline of the tunic. He was intent on placing the difficult stitches through the thick seams on the shoulder. He did not even glance up when Bashir entered, otherwise he would have been taken aback to see the doctor grinning from ear to ear.

"Is there something I can help you with? Did you rip the seams on your exercise suit again?"

"No." Bashir said happily. "This is purely a social call."

"Shouldn't you be playing darts with O'Brien in the evenings?"

"Mmm. Yes, but I have something to show you, so I came over."

"Oh?" Garak glanced up at him, intrigued. Bashir was standing there watching him eagerly.

Garak started biting his lips. It was not subtle at all, and Bashir picked up on it immediately. The doctor looked at him with confusion, wondering what that kind of Cardassian body language that signified. He knew that Garak had a way of pursing his lips outward that indicated attraction or interest, but this was an entirely new signal.

"What's wrong? You're-um-biting your lips a lot."

"Doctor!" Garak sputtered with amusement.

To his surprise, the Cardassian hunched over with laughter.

"What, did I say something funny?"

Garak shook his head, still chuckling too much to answer. He laughed for nearly a full minute while Bashir watched him with an utterly perplexed expression. Finally, the tailor stopped chuckling and gave a tired wheeze, still emitting an occasional snicker.

"Doctor-oh." He breathed, clutching at his sides. "My dear doctor, there are much better ways of gaining my attention than…that."

"What? All I said was good evening and that I wanted to show you something."

"It really doesn't become you, you know. You don't have the correct skin color for it, but the gesture is noted."

"My skin?" Bashir looked at his hands, trying to find what was so amusing. All he could see was grimy yellow paint that had gotten trapped beneath his fingernails.

"You really don't know, do you?" Garak looked surprised. "Well, now I no longer feel regret for making sport of it."

Garak was smirking as he grabbed Bashir by the shoulders and steered him over to the mirror. The doctor was too distracted to push away the contact that was intimate by Cardassian standards. Bashir looked at his reflection in the full length mirror. His eyes widened.

"Oh my God."

Garak gave a dark laugh.

"I didn't mean- I don't know how it got there."

"So I see. It is an amusing coincidence, is it not?" Garak met his gaze in the mirror's reflection. His eyes were still twinkling with mirth.

Bashir had a large dot of cerulean blue on his forehead that was echoed on the left side of his neck along with a smudge of grass green. Everything was slightly off-center in accordance to where Cardassian body paint would be, but the implication was there.

"I was wondering about the green. I thought it might have been a human way of insinuating something."

"It isn't. All it's insinuating is that I accidentally got paint on my body."

Bashir raised the heel of his hand, about to smear the blue paint off.

"Don't!"

Garak caught his wrist in a firm grip.

"Oh come on, haven't you had enough of a laugh at my expense?"

The Cardassian's expression was neutral again, but the look in his eyes was no longer that of amusement.

"You mustn't remove it like that."

"Oh!" Bashir's eyes widened as he realized that he might nearly have been about to make some sort of disrespectful gesture. But then again, he was not a Cardassian. It made no sense that Garak was making such an issue of it-

Before the doctor could ponder over Cardassian taboos, something warm and wet brushed over his forehead. Garak had licked his thumb and swiped it across Bashir's brow. The doctor stood there, stunned. His forehead was damp with Cardassian saliva. The former spy looked at his blue thumb with intrigue and mild distaste. He glanced back at Bashir, noting that the human was staring at him as if Garak had just committed some sort of criminal act. Bashir's brow still had streaks of blue. The tailor made a tsking noise of regret.

"Ah, this is oil paint, isn't it? That would explain the scent and why I could not remove it like a crown mark."

"A crown mark?" Bashir's curiosity momentarily overcame his shock.

"It's a personal term that only a few Cardassian males use. It has less austere terms among my people."

Bashir's disbelief started to overcome his thirst for cultural knowledge.

"You just wiped your saliva on me! I know that Cardassians like to think that their cleanliness is supreme, but your mouth holds as many germs as any human mouth."

"Doctor, calm yourself. You haven't been known to do the most sanitary things with your human or Bajoran females. Perhaps my approach was a little unorthodox, but it has been many years since I was given the honor of removing a mark. I indulged myself a little."

"I-indulged!" The human stuttered.

Garak gave a huff of irritation.

"I did nothing that would be offensive to either of our cultures. Here, let me replicate a face towel to remove the rest and then I will explain."

As soon as Garak had fetched the damp face towel for him, Bashir had snatched it out of his hand. The doctor had scrubbed at his forehead, frowning. He realized he was overreacting. As a doctor, he had to come in contact with all sorts of unpleasant bodily fluids. A little spit was hardly a new thing, but it was the fact that his friend had deliberately marked him with it that had alarmed him. The implications of it were unknown, but the gesture had appeared intimate.

"You may cease glaring at me as if I have committed an atrocity. It was a sign of mutual respect and trust, nothing more."

Bashir blinked.

"That's all?"

The Cardassian slowly nodded, gaze conveying his sincerity.

"So, what you did was a friendly gesture?" Bashir touched the cleaned spot on his head wonderingly.

"Yes. It is can be performed on a male or female in a variety of ways, each with their own meaning. The tradition has somewhat phased out with male Cardassian culture, but it is still practiced in some Cardassian villages. It is no longer observed in our larger cities."

Bashir was suddenly looking humbled. His gaze flitted about nervously.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you. I didn't know you were trying to do something kind. I was confused."

"That much was obvious." Garak said wryly.

"Are you supposed to do that with the neck paint too?"

The tailor nodded.

Bashir sighed and tilted his head to the right, presenting the left side of his neck to undergo the same ritual. Garak blinked, and then quickly wiped off his thumb on the hand towel so he could repeat the gesture. Bashir seemed much more relaxed this time now that he knew the meaning of the custom. It really was not so unpleasant and it was apparently the highest of compliments, something to be honored and valued. It was a sign of mutual trust Garak had said, and Bashir did not associate that word with the former spy. In his opinion, the Cardassian could do with a more trusting nature. Bashir was not going to hinder that.

The doctor cleaned the residue of green and blue from his neck with the clean side of the damp towel. What had just occurred was one of the stranger experiences of his life. He had learned to expect the unexpected around alien races, but what he had experienced around other species had been gratitude rituals for his acts of healing. This was the first time an alien had performed some sort of friendship ritual with him. However, he supposed it was possible that Garak was playing with his naïvety again.

"Why did you stop me from rubbing it off? Does that have some sort of meaning?"

Garak nodded solemnly.

"They only reason why a Cardassian would aggressively rub off a mark on his or her own brow would indicate loneliness or what humans would call a bout of depression. It also suggests that they would have no one who would be willing to do it for them. It is not considered a cheerful sign."

"Sometimes I wonder if you're just having me on with things like this."

The tailor raised his eye ridges with feigned surprise.

"Why doctor, do you think it likely that I made a gesture that signified you as my enemy?"

"No. But I'm not sure what you just did indicated I was your friend. After all, we rowed two days ago. You were irritated for quite a long time."

Garak gave a slight shrug and head tilt.

"I don't know why my apparent lack of humanity should annoy you." Bashir continued.

"That isn't the reason why I was irritated."

"Alright, why were you irritated then?"

"It's too complex." Garak tried to brush him off.

"Not for a genetically enhanced brain it isn't."

"I was annoyed that you had neglected to tell me."

Bashir gave a startled sputtering noise as Garak arranged some of the clothing hanging up. The Cardassian straightened his wares while the doctor collected himself.

"You lie to me all the time!"

"Yes, but I never withhold information. Apparently you have mastered that particular skill."

Garak had his back turned to him as he arranged and smoothed out the cloth, straightening unseen wrinkles.

"Is this because you think I don't trust you? You never trust anyone, at least you hadn't until today when you performed that ritual!"

"On the contrary, I would advise you to banish trust from your mind at all costs."

"Then why are you angry? Did you want to be the first to know, or-?"

Slight surprise flickered across Garak's features before he schooled his face back into careful emotionlessness.

"You did." Bashir's jaw dropped.

"How presumptuous of you, doctor. I have not heard anything more ridiculous in my life." The tailor protested.

"No. You wanted to know first. I saw it plain as day on your face. It hurt that you found out from other people instead of me."

"Doctor, you should really get that ego looked it. It is starting to grow far past recommended size."

"Are you trying to insult me?" Bashir sounded incredulous.

"Ah, I apologize. Sometimes my way of communication with my own species dictates how I treat others. Cardassians take pride in crude sarcasm and argumentative repertoire. Now, I do believe that you came in here to reveal a surprise to me. If I have not damaged the ambiance between us, then I hope that you still find me worthy of sharing in your delight."

Bashir sighed.

"Of course, Garak. I know that I've been a bit worked up lately, but I hope you will forgive me too."

The tailor lightly touched the doctor's elbow, a pleased expression creeping over his grey features.

"Completely and utterly."

It was his same friendly tone that the Cardassian always used around Bashir, but something in his eyes bespoke of a deeper fondness, a sort of indescribable devotion that was of a rare kind. Perhaps Bashir's gesture of creativity was all for naught. How could he have ever doubted that Garak knew him? The look that the tailor was giving him was not the look of a man that believed his friend to be a robot. Still, the doctor would show Garak what he had toiled so long over, and he would simultaneously give him a reason for the appearance of the paint on his brow.

"Follow me."

* * *

Bashir slid the door to his quarters open. Garak stood resolutely in the doorway. His reptilian friend had stared and stared. Bashir was about to examine him for signs that he had become catatonic. The Cardassian seemed hypnotized by the canvas on the wall.

"Well, aren't you going to go in? I have it all set up for your viewing pleasure, but I would like to get through the door."

Garak realized that he had been blocking the doorway. He stepped swiftly aside so Bashir could walk past him. The doctor went immediately to his console, bringing up the program that would access his implant. The doctor reached for the device that would remove the implant near the base of his neck just below his right ear. As he brought the silver cylinder closer his neck, he found his movement arrested by the Cardassian again.

"What are you doing?" Garak's hand closed over the doctor's arm, gazing at him with trepidation.

Bashir wore a soft smile when he saw Garak's concern.

"I'm just going to remove a small implant that recorded my neural and synaptic responses when I painted this."

Garak looked stunned.

"You thought my insults were valid? You think that I had presumed you were without feeling?"

"I think I realize now that you were just trying to get a rise out of me. I should have trusted you."

Bashir removed the implant. He gave a slight grimace as he wrenched it out of the tender area. Swiftly, he loaded the instrument into his computer and images and numbers started flashing across his screen. His brain scan showed a steady glow of mental activity in the frontal lobes. His scans were compared with previous images. His emotional responses had been in accordance with a normal human creative experience.

Something that had been unsettled in Bashir had been eased when he saw those maps and charts. By all accounts, he had reacted normally. He had not been aware that his shoulders were tensed until they slumped with relief. Garak picked up on the physical reaction curiously, but made no comment. Instead, the Cardassian was drawn back to the painting. The tailor left his side to step back up to the artwork.

"You seem to really like my work."

"Hmm?" Garak seemed distracted. "Oh yes, you have captured Bajor down to the very essence. Though there is one thing that especially intrigues me about this view of Bajor. It is quite unique."

Bashir shrugged.

"It's just like any other oil painting. I like to believe that my style is special, but it wouldn't stand out at an art gallery or someplace like that."

"I do believe it is special." Garak smiled. "So special in fact that you do not immediately notice what makes it conspicuous."

The tailor waited in smug silence while Bashir pondered over the piece. The perspectives, architecture, and overall atmosphere of the scene were not remarkable. He eventually gave up trying to guess.

"Why doctor, just minutes ago you had it written all over you, or I should say painted all over you. Look at the sky. Have you ever seen Bajor's sky that particular tint of cerulean blue? Bajor's sky is grey or a dull scarlet. It occasionally resembles indigo, but never the exact hue that you have just depicted."

Bashir blinked.

"Not that that is flaw or it somehow cheapens your work." Garak continued on kindly. "Doctor, this is not Bajor to you. This is Earth. And like a silly, sentimental, and human creature that you are, you painted Bajor subconsciously like your home. Now, if that does not convince you that you are humanoid and that you belong here among us, I do not know what will."

Julian stared and his face twisted into an expression that betrayed a mix of emotions. He was touched, bashful, flattered, and heartily embarrassed by Garak's keen observation. Mostly he was awed. He had been struggling with that feeling of belonging, of worthiness to be in Starfleet or in a place of trust with his patients. It had not occurred to him that it had been the entire reason he had created this painting and recorded his brain's responses. Julian's mouth opened, but no sound came out. His brain was effectively scrambled for a few moments.

"Now, who are you planning on gifting it to? Did you perhaps paint this for a friend?" The Cardassian changed the subject as if he had not just completely stunned Bashir moments ago.

"U-um. I didn't have anyone in mind when I painted it." Julian stuttered.

The tailor's smile fell slightly.

"But you can have it if you like. I didn't think anyone would be interested. I thought I would have to fob it off on someone to get it out of my quarters."

"Fob it off!" Garak sounded alarmed. "My dear doctor, one simply does not give away an original Julian Bashir without ceremony."

"Well, you are welcome to it, Garak. I don't think I know anyone who could appreciate its aesthetics quite like you do."

Back was the Cardassian's secretive smile, and he had an affectionate gleam in his eyes.

"Right you are, doctor. I don't think there is anyone who knows more subtleties to an original Bashir than I."

Bashir's brow furrowed. That had sounded a trifle more enigmatic than Garak's usual sentiments.

"Where are you going to put it? It's a little large for your quarters, isn't it?" The doctor looked at him curiously.

"Ah, but my shop has ample room for it. If you would grace it with a signature, than I shall have a conversation piece for my customers to admire."

"It'll need a protective coating too." Bashir was already musing over modern day glazes that would seal up the wet painting.

Old masters like Raphael or DaVinci had no such luxury and had to wait for their work to dry before sealing it. He supposed he could have done it fresco style and sealed it up with plaster, but the dry canvas had seemed more forgiving of an object to paint on. While he pondered that over, he picked up a detail brush and loaded it with grey. As he leaned over to sign it, a cool fingertip touched his forehead, pushing his head slightly backward. Garak chuckled.

"Now I see how you managed to get that blue on your brow. Leaning like that nearly smeared the sky across your scalp again."

Bashir hastily took a step back, wearing a wry smile. He extended his arm to add his scribbly, looping signature.

"And I happened to have an itch on my neck when I was painting grass near the horizon, hence the green and blue." The doctor mused.

"Truly a remarkable talent you have there for emulating cultural practices by accident."

"It's part of my charm." Bashir grinned, cleaning out his brush in a cup of paint thinner.


	3. Chapter 3

Bashir was summoned abruptly to Ops the following day. It was about mid afternoon, so he had been reluctantly pulled from his work at the infirmary. His brief creative stint was over. He had enjoyed dabbling in something new, but he would have research projects to complete soon. Like with any project, he had happily put the equipment away and had anticipated new things to discover. It seemed any plans he had for intellectual activities would have to wait.

All of the senior staff members were assembled there. The lithe doctor slid into the little crowd, acting as he had long since been waiting with them. Everyone appeared a little strained. Captain Sisko exited his office, strolling down the stairs and turning to Commander Dax.

"Still no word from Outpost 2. We're just getting Breen transmission interference." She informed them.

"Do you think they'll invade?" Kira asked the captain.

The question had long since been on their minds. Relations between the Federation and the Breen had been shaky, and the Dominion had been showing a pronounced interest in them. Sisko appeared to consider the query. He relayed the facts to them before voicing his opinion.

"It's possible. The communications at the other outposts are down, but our sensors show that the Gamma Quadrant is swamped with radiation and that signals are getting scrambled. The outposts are still intact, but Outpost 2 is not showing up on our sensors in the radiation storm."

"It could be a sign of invasion or just very bad timing for a natural phenomenon." Bashir mused aloud.

He grimaced after making the flippant remark. Sometimes the casual way he phrased things wore on Sisko's patience, but the captain seemed neutral about it today.

"That is exactly what I thought, doctor. But I don't want to wait for our Gamma outposts to start disappearing before we declare this event an invasion."

Worf narrowed his eyes. "We're going looking for them."

Sisko nodded.

"Worf and Dax, you're with me. Major, I'm leaving you in temporary command of the station. Bashir and O'Brien, you'll assist here. The Defiant will head for home as soon as we see an invasion force."

"Let's hope there isn't one." O'Brien muttered.

"That would be a welcome turn of events." Sisko stepped onto the lift with Dax.

"Defiant." Sisko ordered the lift. It slid quickly down from sight. Worf followed shortly behind.

* * *

"They've been gone for an hour now. They should have been able to get word to us, even with communications scrambled in the Gamma quadrant." Miles told the major.

Bashir was unhelpfully pacing the Operations room, waiting for word just as anxiously as Kira and O'Brien. He hated it when he was left at the station for whatever inexplicable reason. It was like Sisko had simply forgotten about him. But then Bashir considered that he was being unfair. Perhaps the captain was anticipating a large invasion force, for which Deep Space Nine would need all of the assistance it could get during an evacuation. A medical professional was in high demand during an invasion. Sisko must have carefully considered the positions of his senior staff members in the same way someone would contemplate the best locations for chess pieces during a game.

Those were comforting thoughts, but unhelpful when everyone was waiting for their prized captain and emissary to come back with the other officers. Kira was watching Bashir trying to wear a hole in the floor with his pacing and O'Brien staring at their communications console as if he could not wrench his gaze away from it. She had been tapping her fingers in addition to their nervous habits. Perhaps it was time to take a peek into the wormhole to find out what had happened.

"Chief, Doctor, go ahead and take a runabout."

They both stared at her as if she had gone mad.

"The runabout communications system is suited for station contact more than the Defiant. You won't be engaging the enemy, just sticking your nose through the wormhole and reporting back to the station."

The Chief nodded and started making his way towards the lift. Bashir quickly followed suit.

"Just come back in one piece so I don't have to tell the captain you two went searching for him before a possible wormhole breach." The Major called softly, so that none of the other officers would overhear them.

Bashir was grinning as he and Miles headed down from Ops to the runabout pads. It seemed that the Major was just as impatient as they were. It was comforting knowledge. Major Kira always appeared above such petty feelings. She was driven by duty, professionalism, and a personal passion that made some of the Starfleet officers feel inadequate.

Bashir and O'Brien chose the Rio Grande for the mission. They entered the runabout quickly and warmed up the warp core. The chief was already overseeing the standard takeoff procedures.

"U.S.S. Rio Grande to Ops. Releasing docking clamps and all moorings." O'Brien typed in his commands, eventually firing their thrusters to hold their position.

"Don't get in over your head out there." Major Kira reminded them.

Though she said the words teasingly, a serious undercurrent lingered in her tone. The mixed message was all too clear to the engineer and the doctor. It said to avoid a fight whenever possible. Kira had always put duty and faith above all, and now she was relying on the latter to bring them back safely.

"We'll be back before you can miss us."

"And in time for tea." Bashir cut in.

"Get out of here, Rio Grande." Kira said with traces of amusement in her voice.

O'Brien smiled and moved them gently away from the station. Bashir glanced at him from the co-pilot's seat. The doctor began digging through his medical case. He eventually gave a soft 'aha!' and Miles turned to him curiously. Bashir was holding a small computer vial aloft.

"What's that?"

"Klingon opera. I was using it for research. Jadzia threatened to send Worf after it if I didn't give it back the next time I see her."

Miles snickered.

"You must be reasonably afraid that she's going to send Worf after you."

"Afraid of Worf, ha!" Bashir scoffed. He paused, a thoughtful look overshadowing his playful demeanor.

"I just hope they're alright," The doctor added more quietly.

"Yeah, me too." Miles piloted them closer and closer to the wormhole site.

The formation gradually appeared, like a cloud obscuring the sky. They brought the runabout closer until the entrance was triggered into gaping open to admit them. The wormhole swirled open in a blaze of blue light. The stars seemed to twinkle from deep within its depths. It looked to be from a whole different kind of universe. The doctor and the engineer sat up straighter in their seats as they surveyed the phenomenon. Their craft entered the wormhole at warp speed. The shimmering blue light flashed by, rippling and swirling like water.

The craft began gradually to slow on its own accord. O'Brien looked at their ship instruments, confused. He started running tests on their decreased speed. His friend was still sitting there, frozen. The Chief was about to bark out a request for Bashir to react. The ship was getting slower and slower until it would stop altogether in the middle of the wormhole.

"Julian!" He snapped. "I could use a little help."

The Chief did a double take when he looked over to find the doctor gazing dazedly straight in front of him. Bashir's dark eyes were wide open, unseeing.

* * *

When they had entered the wormhole anomaly, the world started to fade around Julian. The lights started to dim and the distant stars winked out. The cockpit of the runabout faded away as if it was gently being obscured by dark smoke. The hum of the engines was obliterated until no other sounds remained except his own heartbeat and breathing. For a moment, Bashir started to wonder if he had suddenly and inexplicably died. This had to be some form of twisted afterlife, alone in this dark world.

Before fear could begin to overtake his mind, colors leaked through the veil of black around him. The warm atmosphere of Quark's bar surrounded him. His surroundings remained blurred as if they were from a memory. He was still alone. He turned around, searching. The Dabo tables were unoccupied, as were the bar seats. All was eerily quiet. Gradually, shapes emerged into humanoid forms. They were the familiar shapes of his friends.

Kira, Odo, Miles, and Garak all stood around him. They were silent, surveying him. They stood as stiffly as statues. The soft lights in the atmosphere made them appear as ghosts or gods, unreachable and distant. They looked like they were from some bygone age. Bashir suddenly understood. These were the wormhole aliens taking on the appearance of his friends.

"The enhancements frighten you." Kira observed.

It took Bashir a few moments to make the connection that she was talking about his genetic enhancements. The reason why the aliens should wish to discuss his enhancements eluded him. He humored them like Sisko had done.

"Not that often. I'm used to them now."

"You feared for your life." Garak mused.

The tailor appeared especially eerie in this form. The drifting voice only made him seem inhuman. His face looked cold and reptilian without that usual warm smile he reserved for Bashir.

"I know I won't be killed for what was done to me. It wasn't my choice." The doctor protested. He frowned at the crowded room. The way they kept accusing him of being fearful was wearing on his sense of civility,

"It is not natural." Odo chimed in.

"You were not born with it. It was forced upon you." Miles stared hard at him.

They were acting as if they were trying to talk him out of something, condemning his genetic enhancements for no foreseeable purpose.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean it was wrong. I'm using it to help people. My friends could have been killed many times over if not for the skills I have from the tampering with my brain."

"The Sisko said that there is only the present. What your abilities have done in the past is no concern of ours." The gathered prophets spoke in the eerie choir of his friend's voices.

"Sisko was right, but I am using my mental acuity in the present." Bashir patiently reminded them.

"Using it makes you unhappy. You are responsible for who lives." Kira reminded him.

"And who dies." Odo finished.

"I can handle that. I've been living with that quandary for years." Bashir started to grow frustrated. He began to pace the room around the prophets agitatedly.

He was well aware that he always had a moral sensitivity. No one could be a part of the medical profession and avoid becoming emotionally battered from the work. A doctor becoming depressed or despondent over their job was hardly singular.

"There is only the present. You are discontent in the present."

"So, what do you want me to do?" Bashir said bitingly. He had grown tired of trying to assure them of the merits of his intellect.

"We should take the decision away. Make things as they were meant to be." Garak's form walked right up to him and stared at him intently.

"I _am_ as I was meant to be."

"You are not." Miles shook his head at him.

"Now see here-"

Bashir's angry retort was cut off. Quark's bar winked out of existence. His surroundings became dark and quiet. It came as suddenly as a switch being flipped. A rhythmic sound came slowly through the haze. His ears were ringing. Julian's face felt sore and he realized that his eyes were closed. He felt a fading stinging sensation as if someone had been slapping him. He emitted a soft groan and his fingers started to twitch.

"That's it. Come on."

The doctor blinked his eyes open and saw Miles. His heart clenched with momentary panic, thinking that he had passed out among the prophets. Miles's voice had changed. Gone was the misty voice of the Wormhole aliens, in its place was the usual heavy Irish inflection.

"How do you feel? Can you sit up?"

"Give me a minute." Bashir took several hurried breaths. He looked around the runabout.

Everything as it was since they had entered the wormhole, except a replicated coffee cup that was lying on the floor in pieces. It must have been left there from their last journey in this runabout. He assumed that he must have knocked it over in the throes of the vision.

"What happened?" The doctor asked.

"I don't know. You went all still and wide-eyed like the captain does when he's having a vision. It was only for a couple of minutes, so I kept the craft steady. I thought that you must have passed out when you fell. Did you see the prophets? Julian?"

A flash of horror came over the doctor's features. His breathing sped up as he gulped in air.

"Julian?"

The horror deepened and Bashir turned startled dark eyes to him. He reached out and grabbed the engineer's shoulder in a surprisingly tight grip.

"Miles?"

Gone was Bashir's usually suave, calm voice. He was panting from some sort of unseen terror.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

The chief's brow furrowed and he looked around for the source of Bashir's fear. There was nothing there, just the same mundane runabout interior. He turned back to his terrified friend.

"Miles, my genetic enhancements-they aren't there!" Bashir clutched at O'Brien's uniform like a lifeline, "The modifications to my brain are gone."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Before everyone gets in an uproar about Julian's genetic enhancements, I actually took some notes during _Doctor Bashir, I Presume _to make sure I covered all of the different operations done to his brain and body. Gosh, it was a lot. I was surprised.

* * *

The Defiant sailed out of the wormhole hale and intact. Dax was at the controls to the helm. She blinked when she saw the Starfleet runabout register on her screen close to their location. Worf glanced over at her while she stared on with surprise. The Klingon had noticed the ship on their sensors too.

"It looks like someone is here to greet us." She said aloud. By now, the entire crew had seen the familiar runabout floating just outside the wormhole. It was stationary.

"The Rio Grande is hailing us." Dax turned in her seat and looked at Captain Sisko.

The captain nodded.

"They must have sent someone out when we lost contact. On screen."

Jadzia switched on the controls to put the hail on visual. The interior of the runabout came into view along with a visual of the chief engineer. Miles gave a thankful smile when he saw the crew of the Defiant appear unharmed.

"About time you showed up."

"We were delayed by the Jem'Hadar, but it appears that the Outpost is in good condition. The Jem'Hadar managed to knock out our long range communications." Sisko informed him.

Miles just nodded. An inexplicable expression flickered across his features. Sisko noticed the small change in demeanor. O'Brien was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve while on duty. Something must have happened to cause his professional mask to drop.

"Is there something wrong, Chief?" The captain leaned forward in his seat, concerned.

"It's Julian, sir. He isn't well."

"You mean that he is ill?" Worf asked.

"No. He's just had a vision with the wormhole prophets."

"Ah." Sisko leaned back. He looked pensive.

The Chief was biting his lip as he thought of what to say. He did not have anything specific to tell them about Julian's state. Bashir's exclamation that he had lost his genetic enhancements had been straightforward, but all that entailed was still unclear. He knew Julian's genetic changes included strengthened vision, hand-eye coordination, height, weight, stamina, and intelligence. The question was which of these had he lost and to what severity? Julian's body had seemed diminished, but he had always seemed small and skinny to Miles. It was difficult to tell if there had been any difference.

Bashir was not helping matters. After his terrified proclamation, the doctor had stumbled over to a passenger bench behind the controls and had sat down heavily. He had appeared to be in too much shock to explain, but he had muttered several things about the wormhole prophets. Miles had tried to question him, but the doctor had just stared at the floor, blinking. After assuring himself that Bashir did not seem to be in any immediate danger, O'Brien had draped a blanket around the young man's shoulders and had gone back to the runabout controls. Bashir had momentarily come out of his stupor to tell him to keep the runabout where it was. Then he had changed his mind, murmuring something about it being futile.

It was then that the Defiant had exited the wormhole. Miles told them only a small portion of the truth.

"He's in a bit of shock, but he seems alright. Is everyone okay over there?"

"Everyone's fine. If you don't need any assistance, we'll meet you back at the station."

"We'll meet at the station then."

The Rio Grande maneuvered in front of the Defiant once the communication had ended. Miles had decided that he should get Julian to the infirmary as soon as possible. The Defiant had allowed them the leeway to jump ahead and had not contacted them for an explanation. He knew Sisko had noticed their haste to return and the captain's uneasiness about the situation would likely increase tenfold. Sisko would know that O'Brien was more rattled about Bashir's state than he had let on.

Once they docked, Bashir had collected himself. He had stood, plastering on a fake smile for O'Brien. The engineer had surveyed him critically, noticing that they were the same height now. Bashir had always been a couple inches taller than him. Things had already begun to change.

"Come on, let's get you looked over to see what's happened."

Miles had tried to usher Julian out of the craft ahead of him. The doctor had just stood and stared. His eyes had not followed Miles's movement.

"Julian? Let's go."

"Oh! Right."

The doctor exited the craft with Miles at his back. The engineer was still staring at him as if to assure himself that Bashir was not about to topple over. Bashir walked out into the airlock and let the Chief close off the entryway to the door of their craft. Their silence had become tense, and Julian was walking unsteadily as if in a daze.

When they reached the airlock exit, Bashir walked straight into a bulkhead. His face collided harshly with the unforgiving metal, making a dull thumping noise.

"Ow!"

Julian reeled back, nearly bumping into the Chief. Bashir cupped his hands over his face, clutching at the pained area.

"Easy! Take it easy." The engineer put a hand discreetly on his elbow, steadying him.

"I'm fine." Bashir's voice came out muffled from behind his hands.

"Can you see?" The Chief would have expected a move like that from someone who was completely blind but new to the condition.

"Not very well. Everything's just a blur." Bashir uncovered his slightly reddened face.

Assured that his friend was only disoriented and sore, Miles took the lead.

"I'll walk in front then. I'll keep the bulkheads away in case any more decide to attack you."

The blur of gold and black that was Miles stood in front of him and started to move down the docking ring.

"Haha." Bashir said dryly.

The doctor followed him. He knew that Miles was trying to keep up their usual playful banter in an effort to relax the situation. The engineer frequently glanced back to make sure that Bashir was still trailing after him and not about to run into anything. The obvious but unvoiced concern made Bashir smile thinly.

"You know that the Defiant's probably just docked." Miles reminded him.

"If it's all the same to you, I would rather get medically checked out first before I report to Sisko." Bashir said nervously.

Miles shrugged to himself.

"Just thought you might want to give Worf his operas back."

He heard Julian give a quiet snicker.

"Klingons are the least of my worries right now."

The doctor paused right in the middle of the corridor. Miles walked a few more feet ahead alone before he heard Julian call him back.

"Miles? Which direction did you go? I think I'm at a junction." Julian's voice sounded slightly higher than usual.

O'Brien felt a small pang of sympathy. Julian sounded so lost. The doctor's shoulders seemed to slump with relief when he heard the Chief's footsteps double back and approach him. Bashir's large brown eyes were wide open and unseeing. Miles waved a hand in front of Bashir's face to try to pull him out of that glazed stare. The doctor's brow furrowed.

"Are you waving something in front of my face? I feel a breeze."

"It's my hand. Are you really blind right now?" Miles frowned. Bashir's sight seemed to be worsening instead of getting better.

"My vision keeps on fading in and out depending on the light. I think my eyes are just focusing, but it's a bit eerie."

Miles gently lifted up the doctor's hand to rest on his shoulder. The material of his uniform felt warm, grounding to Julian amidst his sensory deprivation. All around him the darkness cloaked him, like a great void. It was like an endless dark maze someone had dropped him into. He would see fleeting, fading colors, but darkness would unexpectedly creep over his sight. His breathing had picked up in his alarm and confusion. Miles's voice made his panic abate.

"Just keep you hand on my shoulder and I'll walk slower. You can act like a concerned doctor marching me to the infirmary and no one will be any the wiser."

"Ah, clever. What would I do without you, Miles?"

"Well, you'd have one less person to annoy and play darts with for starters."

Bashir tried to hold back a smile.

"And we would have to find someone else to play Falcon in the holosuite."

"That's enough talk from you about replacing me." The Chief said with mock irritation.

"Fine, well, what do you want to talk about?"

Bashir's fingertips were lightly pressed on his shoulder as he walked beside him.

"Actually, we're almost to the infirmary door."

"Thank God." Bashir mumbled.

"It's a short walk."

"Not to me." The doctor grumbled.

"At least we didn't have to walk through the main part of the promenade."

"I can still hear people on the promenade, and the docking ring noises. I had no idea this station was so loud."

The hum of power couplings and work crews filtered through his hearing as well as chatting Bajorans and squealing and laughing children. Bashir was starting to feel more and more overwhelmed.

"Here we are. We've made it. And I didn't even lead you into anymore bulkheads."

The Chief opened the door.

"How considerate of you." Julian murmured as O' Brien lead him through the familiar surroundings.

Bashir vision was steadily starting to fade in again. He could even see the ugly infirmary carpet as he walked. He heard Nurse De Lan's voice greet them. Bashir felt a small feminine hand grip his arm and lead him over to sit on an infirmary bed.

"You might want to check on his eyes first. He's been having trouble seeing." O'Brien informed the nurse.

The Bajoran woman tilted Bashir's head up higher and scanned his eyes.

"Are you having any sensitivity to light? Any pain?"

"The light's getting to me a bit, but it'll pass. I'm able to focus more now."

He was already starting to pick out features on faces again, like the outlines of noses and mouths. Eyes were a bit harder. He had a mild headache that accompanied the new clarity to his vision.

"The scans show that your eyes are adjusting. I think a bandage would be-"

"No, no. I'll just keep my eyes closed for a while. The light isn't that terrible"

Bashir was reluctant to be seen wandering around the station with bandaged eyes like a pitiable wraith of a man. He already felt disoriented; he wished not to be a laughingstock as well. The nurse handed him his tricorder and allowed him to squint at it to study the readings for himself. The glow of the screen made the dark numbers easier to pick out.

"Oh, that bad? I guess I'll have to get some Retinax contacts."

The nurse frowned at him, scrutinizing him more closely.

"Doctor. Might I observe that you appear to be shorter and slimmer."

"I can't say that's surprising. The prophets did say that they would make me as I was meant to be."

The Bajoran looked taken aback for a moment and then she smiled.

"Then they have bestowed on you a great gift."

O'Brien made an outraged sound.

"They shrink down his body and take away his eyesight and you call that a gift?"

O'Brien was tolerant of the Bajoran religion, but when it came to a personal matter like this he would respect a friend far more than a faith. Keiko was of the same mind. She would have been outraged by the flippant statement the woman had made.

"Sir, the will of the prophets must not be mocked. Your presence is no longer required here. I will resume examining the doctor alone."

Her voice had gone cold. Julian glanced over in Miles's direction.

"You should go Miles. Sisko will want you to give the Defiant a post-mission check over."

Miles nodded. When he remembered that Julian couldn't see the minute movement he gave an "Alright."

Dr. Bashir was subjected to a multitude of scans and tests in the next few hours. His memory retention and reading ability had suffered drastically. His language was becoming less florid, but that might have been a result of his nervousness. He could remember how he had learned and read before, now he was just grasping at shadows to perform as he once did. He had started tapping his fingers agitatedly halfway through the examinations and tests. An almost permanent scowl affixed his features. He had performed a read aloud test only to discover that half of every sentence seemed foreign to him. He occasionally sounded out words backwards, like a form of dyslexia.

"So, what level is my reading? Am I reading at a 5th grade Earth level, perhaps?"

"1st grade Earth level." She corrected.

Bashir swore and set down the reading pad with considerable force. He had planned to dent it, to damage it to take out his frustration on something immobile. It had just bounced and lay there. It had remained stubbornly intact.

"Doctor, please calm yourself. With practice, your reading ability will improve. You'll be reading works by Shakespeare before you know it."

Julian's frown softened.

"Never liked Shakespeare that much really. Jules Verne is going to be my first choice if I can ever read like I could again."

"With some patience you will, doctor."

Bashir sighed heavily.

"So, if I can't get the prophets to change their mind, then I guess this is goodbye."

"I haven't finished with the examination yet."

"I meant my dismissal from Starfleet Medical practices."

The nurse paused for a moment as she adjusted a hypospray.

"No one has said anything about dismissal. You must not give up hope about your position. You can always relearn what you knew." She gave him a shot and went back to reading his results.

Bashir was already shaking his head.

"I can't. Even if I could read at, say, a 9th grade level, I still would have to have a research assistant. I can't be the doctor I once was, no matter how hard I work. I remember how quickly I calculated everything and weighed the risks. How can I work on patients knowing that I was just barely capable? People will want the legendary Doctor Bashir, genetic genius solving their maladies."

"You still are Dr. Bashir, kind and careful with your patients. You should not give up that easily."

"Ha. Like I have a choice." Bashir said bitterly.

The doctor's blurry vision suddenly started to deteriorate further and his body felt heavy. He slumped back on the biobed.

"De Lan, what did you give me?" He snapped.

"It was a mild tranquilizer just to relax you. I adjusted the dosage to your current height and weight. You'll sleep for a few hours."

"A few hours!" He yelped.

He attempted to lurch up and stand but ended up lying back down again. His body ached too much to move. His eyes started to shut on their own accord. He could no longer fight the effects of the drug. His inhuman stamina was gone. He submitted to the darkness clouding his vision and slept.

* * *

Julian was released from sickbay that evening with strict orders to rest and leave his own battery of mental tests until the morning. All the while, he was evaluating how this new set of abilities suited him. Was this really how he would have been if the genetic enhancements had never happened? Somehow, he was both stunned and fascinated by the concept. He attempted to study it as clinically as he would have with another patient. The more he tested himself, the more he realized he needed to convince the prophets to give him his mental acuity back.

Julian remembered reading as quick as a flash. He took in pages of books with speed and a thirst that was never sated. Now, when he picked up a book he had to struggle. He squinted and sometimes had to adjust the irritating contacts. The Rentinax contacts made his eyes itch and water. He had replicated glasses for himself, but did not have the confidence to wear them in front of anyone he knew yet. He had never particularly liked glasses.

His sight had improved, but he read words at a snail's pace. He would read sentences word by word, only to have to repeat the process when he forgot the previous sentence. He had thrown books across the room in a fit of temper. Whenever he looked in the mirror that evening, he noticed that his face was small and gaunt and that his shoulders had become narrower. His weight on the tricorder leaned close to underweight. At this rate, he would have to start taking in more vitamins and sustenance or risk becoming malnourished.

He sent a report to Sisko about what happened to him and O'Brien. It had taken most of the evening to write even a semblance of a coherent report. The language bordered on unprofessional and the entire paper was too vague. He told himself that the captain would understand his difficulty and sent it nonetheless. He also promised to have a briefing on the event the next morning. Sometime near the witching hour he went to bed and tried not to think of all of the empty chasms in his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Bashir was not one to give up. After his briefing with Captain Sisko that morning, he went back to the wormhole while accompanied by Chief O'Brien. The doctor had tried to hide his condition in front of everyone at Ops, but he could not hide his new glasses or the way his stature had been altered.

When he had gone back to the wormhole, he had hoped that would soon all change. He had his best argument prepared for the Bajoran prophets. He had carefully calculated the most effective ways to persuade them, but it all proved for naught. They had only been able to fly into the formation and sit within the celestial gates in their runabout. The prophets would not speak to him. Sisko had been shocked with the prophets' treatment of the doctor. The ancient Bajorans he knew were merciful and they did not coldly ignore someone seeking them. He had fully expected the doctor to return to his normal condition.

Julian persevered. He went to the orb in the Bajoran temple on their station. There was no orb experience. Bashir sat in front of the small box for hours, but eventually he was shooed gently away from the temple. He tried to get clearance to go back to the wormhole, but Sisko had deterred him, reminding him that the prophets would not change their mind without provocation.

Bashir had actively avoided O'Brien since the Chief had ferried him back and forth from the wormhole. He did not know the reasons for his own actions at the time, but it was later evident to him that he had been embarrassed. Julian had been desperate to get his skills back. He ached with loss and emptiness and spending time with those he cared for only seemed to make the missing parts of him feel larger. The doctor avoided the Cardassian tailor as well. If he was honest with himself, his avoidance of his intellectual friend had been more out of vanity than social awkwardness. Garak was the pinnacle of well-spoken society. To try to emulate Garak's mannerisms could be disastrous to his self confidence.

Bashir had often stayed in his quarters, rarely venturing out onto the promenade. He had not seen much of Kira, Worf, or Odo, so it was difficult to determine how they would react. Dax had been the most verbally supportive, telling him he looked good in glasses and that he had been progressing fast with his reading. Jadzia had helped him through the tedious process of reading while fighting with dyslexia. She was not only a scientist and a skilled linguist, but she had also been a parent many times over. She had taught generations of beings how to read.

They tried a little bit of everything to help him. Almost every type of literature was explored without much result. Bashir tried reading poetry and some young teenage fiction, but he still struggled to see the words in the correct order they were written. He found out that Jadzia had a certain fondness for works by Charles Dickens. Bashir had liked the characters from her books, but he never got very far with them. Jadzia had especially liked Great Expectations, and Bashir had tried to interpret the difficult writing, but many things hindered his perseverance.

Julian found that his body needed more sustenance and it needed to rest for longer intervals. Trying to push his learning abilities made him neglect his health, and soon he caught a cold. Sneezing and coughing distracted him from putting much effort into his relearning process. Fatigue dragged at him, and he found himself dozing off during his and Jadzia's sessions. Luckily, he was off the duty roster until further notice. Bashir suspected that it had more to do with his sudden inability to do his job than it did with contagiousness.

The captain sometimes contacted him to check on his overall health. His concern was touching, but Bashir was too upset with the situation to treat him with anything more than common courtesy. There had also been a vague feeling of blame he associated with the captain. Captain Sisko was the emissary to the prophets. The wormhole aliens would listen to the captain should he try to make a case for Bashir. Yet, his superior officer did not help him.

Eventually, the doctor had gotten physically better. As soon as Sisko had heard the news, he had invited Bashir to breakfast. Bashir secretly thought that Sisko was trying to feed him up. That parenting instinct of the captain's overrode his professional disposition. Sisko enjoyed cooking for absolutely everyone in his kitchen, and it seemed that it would have been an insult to turn his offer down.

Julian supposed that he should get used to people seeing him in his condition. If he had to admit it to himself, he had been a social recluse of late. Bashir was still built like a bespectacled twig of a man, but he hoped he would put on weight soon. Having breakfast with the Siskos seemed like a good place to start. He just hoped that he could keep his words in check around the emissary and not say something impolite about his beloved prophets.

He had found Jake in particularly jovial spirits that morning when he arrived at the captain's quarters. That was to say he was in full reporting mode, much to Bashir's annoyance. His father had not interfered until Jake had started to ask Julian detailed questions.

"So, you say that you can't remember much? Even stuff about Deep Space Nine?" Jake sounded surprised.

After a meal of scones, scrambled eggs with tomatoes, and french toast, Jake had started questioning Bashir about the changes the prophets had left him with. He looked like he was itching to write some of their discussion down, but Bashir had given him a disapproving look whenever Jake had reached for a PADD.

"I remember everything, just not as well. Details escape me. I can't remember how I've cured some diseases my patients had. I can't remember what I was reading last week-that sort of thing."

Jake had shrugged.

"That doesn't sound so bad. People can forget things like that."

"Yes, but not me! My genetics allowed me to remember anything I wanted, even unimportant things from years back. And now it's missing. I feel as if there's an empty space where my memories used to be."

Sisko had come over to the couch to sit by Bashir after his outburst. He could tell that the doctor was agitated and confused. Sisko started to try to direct his frustration into a more productive emotion.

"Why not take a little shore leave? You've been saving up your leave time regularly. You could go visit Bajor."

"I would wander around and get lost. I have the mental capacity of a child. I doubt I could even pilot a runabout to Bajor." Bashir's bitterness was back. The shock of everything must be hitting him hard today.

Sisko put a hand on the doctor's shoulder. He knew that Bashir needed reassurance to be able to come to terms with this.

"You aren't without friends. Everyone is going to pitch in and help. Jadzia is willing to keep assisting you with your reeducation and we have hundreds of different learning programs on the station to help guide you through it."

"I still don't have much of a future. I could go live with my mother and hide away from Starfleet doing some sort of mindless job on Earth. We all know how little I would enjoy that."

"You can still be a doctor again. You have the experience." Sisko told him softly.

"I'm not sure if I can or want to be one anymore." Julian's voice gave a slight crack and he cleared his throat.

Sisko sighed. Bashir stood.

"Thank you for the meal, Captain. It was good to see you again, Jake."

Bashir made to leave before Sisko called after him. The Bashir he knew would have never left a pleasant breakfast on such a down note. His personality had undergone some alterations in accordance to the mental and physical changes. However, Sisko did not think the prophets had had a hand in this particular difference.

"Don't give up just yet, doctor. It's not in your nature."

Julian shrugged and gave him a half-hearted smile. The fake chipper look never reached his eyes. It was then that Sisko started to think that the doctor might never be the same again. Bashir had withstood too much for this to be his breaking point. When the door shut behind the Julian, Jake turned to his father.

"He has problems." Jake said blithely.

Sisko just leaned back into the sofa.

"He does."

Jake hesitated.

"Do you think he'll ever go back into practice?"

Sisko contemplated the question for a moment. "It's difficult to say at this point. If he receives his abilities back he definitely will, but for right now I would settle for him to be happy."

* * *

The day after his meal with the Siskos started like torture. Bashir groaned, headache pounding in his skull. His skin felt clammy and sticky with illness. He rolled over, rubbing at his eyes. It should be in the early hours of the morning yet, but he kept waking. His stomach was continued to stubbornly refuse ingesting anything, but the abdominal pain from the gnawing hunger kept him awake. The discomforting quandary was made only slightly better by medicine he took for nausea.

He recalled the many times he would burn with fever before his genetic enhancements had altered his immune system. For some inexplicable reason, Bashir found himself thinking of his mother. He could remember her voice as clearly as if he had only heard her yesterday. Sometimes he forgot just how much he missed her when he had joined Starfleet.

If she were here now, she would probably read to him. He remembered her showing him picture books and Julian had been forced to unstick his eyelashes that had gummed together to see the bright colorful illustrations. Though he was well past the age that took pleasure in such books, he could not help but miss the memory of having someone there to nurse him through the pain. Julian knew that he could call for a friend to come visit him. Almost every officer on this station pitied him for what had happened, and yet, that was the very reason why Julian refused to call for someone.

He would hopefully sleep this little bout of ill health off and take something for the pain of the developing migraine. Julian sat up and reached for his medical bag that he had stored by the bed. He gave himself a very mild painkiller and set the hypospray aside.

A soft mass sitting on the shelf beside his bed caught his eye. He instinctively reached for his childhood bear, shamelessly curling his arms around Kukalaka. His long fingers skimmed over the well-worn felt, mind recalling carefree days where all his troubles centered on when he could begin playtime, or when the other children in his school would stop ignoring him.

He could not help but think how strangely things had come full circle. Oh, what he would give to be like his old self again. He desperately wanted to slide back into his profession alongside his friends and not be a liability to the people he cared for.


	6. Chapter 6

Bashir's morning was relatively peaceful. He had managed to sleep off the headache and mild fever. His legs were still shaky with fatigue and he was exhausted, but mentally he felt better. The hyposprays appeared to have done their work.

Along with the sudden restoration of health came a spark of interest in the activity on the station. Julian had spent the morning walking along the promenade, scouting around for things to do and people to talk to. He helped several Bajoran shopkeepers and venders set up their wares. The chores were tedious, but the salesmen seemed glad of his company. During his years of practice on Deep Space Nine, Bashir determined that he must have treated every civilian on the station at least once.

Secrets on a station such as theirs were poorly kept, so everyone knew what to expect when they saw him. After some verbal stumbles he fell into the old pattern of communicating with civilians. It appeared that he had never lost that ability to connect with former patients.

Negotiations between the Dominion and the Federation were occurring today, but on a small scale. The Dominion wanted a small backwater Alpha quadrant planet and the Federation wanted a few well known ambassadors that had been taken as Dominion prisoners.

Unfortunately, these minor negotiations meant that some less than savory characters were wandering about the station. Bashir gave a small inward shiver when he noticed several Jem'Hadar waiting near an airlock. They were accompanied by a young female Vorta, who glanced at him with a bone chilling coldness in her eyes. Julian had helped a fruit vender stack up his crates of melons and pear-like fruit, keeping his back turned inconspicuously to the Dominion visitors.

After he had finished helping the cheerful Bajoran fruit vender, he made his way down the promenade. He was thinking of going to the upper level to sit in peace and quiet. A voice rang out, startling him. He grimaced, recognizing that sneering, condescending tone. A large Cardassian marched up to his side, smug smile in place and dark armor glinting like it had been newly polished.

"Well, well, Bashir. What are you doing out on the promenade? Let me guess. Still playing the lapdog to that tailor, are you? Completing his little errands?"

Julian raised an eyebrow in response.

The Gul paused to glance back, waiting for his companion to catch up. Weyoun had been talking with Constable Odo, but he soon caught up with Dukat. He walked swiftly towards them and smiled pleasantly at Bashir. The false grin looked far too masklike to be friendly. Gul Dukat seemed to be glad to have the Vorta as an audience as he talked to the doctor.

"Hmmm. I've heard reports that you've lost your position. Such a shame." Gul Dukat said with mock sincerity.

Bashir shrugged, pretending not to care. "Your concern is touching."

Weyoun surveyed them both with a bored expression. His emotionless eyes silently judged the doctor. Dukat looked Julian up and down in a crude manner. He was undoubtedly remembering Bashir's interference in the matter of the Cardassian war orphans. Bashir's repeated interruptions of Dukat's plans and schemes alongside Garak had done little to endear him to the Gul. Dukat was making it noticeable that he was eyeing him for weaknesses, and he found many. He gave an incredulous smile when he saw Bashir's glasses.

"Aren't these a little archaic? I haven't seen these in decades."

The Gul plucked off the glasses to inspect them. Bashir blinked, vision suddenly blurry. The handicap of his sight was immediately evident to him, but the doctor could not see Dukat's reaction while in his condition. Dukat gave a disappointed sigh. While the doctor had desperately tried to focus his eyesight, he had unintentionally revealed his infirmity.

"We have an urgent appointment with Captain Sisko. I'm sure you'll excuse us, doctor." Weyoun cut in impatiently.

"Ah, business beckons." Dukat glanced at his enemy one moment more.

The Gul's controlling and patronizing attitude could not resist one more dig at Garak's supposed pet. He drove the message of his superiority home with one last subtle gesture.

"Oh dear, how clumsy of me."

Bashir heard a small metallic clatter on the deck. The doctor had to suppress an angry retort as he heard the glasses hit the ground. The lenses remained intact, but the doctor would be left to bend over and blindly search for them. Dukat brushed past him as if he were suddenly an annoying gnat and no longer a human being. His cruel cutting words lingered in Bashir's mind while he reached for his eyeglasses. He knelt down on the deck, fumbling for the dark blurry patch in front of him. His hand brushed against something.

Bashir glanced up as a pale Cardassian hand placed the spectacles in his palm. He gave a small jump, startled. He had been oblivious to the individual's approach.

"My dear doctor, I would have assumed that you had the sense to avoid the good graces of the Gul while in your condition. You should have sought out the company of a different Cardassian, one who is particularly more amiable and with a better wit."

"Garak!" The doctor beamed.

Finally, it seemed that Bashir was not without help or backup. Garak had a way of making him feel ridiculously safe and kept out of the clutches of the Dominion.

"Now now, it's like you haven't seen me in days. I wonder who would be responsible for that."

Bashir put on his glasses just in time to see an accusing blue gaze leveled at him.

"Oh right, our lunch! I'm afraid I've had other things on my mind."

Garak just smiled and offered him a hand up.

"It's perfectly understandable. My word, you're in need of a good lunch more than I thought."

The Cardassian frowned at the way he could hoist up the doctor with very little effort. Julian was his height now, but severely skinny. He studied Bashir more closely. The doctor looked almost dazed with tiredness. The glasses did very little to hide his bloodshot eyes and his glazed look. Garak could not decide if the human would need to sleep or eat first, for he looked to be in desperate want of both activities.

"It is almost lunchtime. I think we should make up for missed social engagements, hmm?"

Garak ushered him to the Replimat. The promenade was not as crowded during early dining hours. The Cardassian knew that their discussion would no doubt lean towards private topics, like how Bashir had been coping with recent events. The tailor had pondered bringing up Bashir's latest disregard for his company during his convalescence, but he did not have the insensitivity to badger him about their missed engagements.

When he looked at Bashir, everything about him seemed wrong. The little socialite who was usually buzzing with life appeared subdued, as if his energy had been completely drained from him. The glasses were an interesting addition, yes, but they only emphasized the gauntness of his face.

Garak's instincts were warning him that this human was very ill, like a dog or a cat might note that their human companion was sick. Though the tailor turned up his nose at comparing himself to creatures kept by humans as pets, he could not deny that he had some of the same survival instincts that Terran animals had. Right now, every fiber of his being wanted nothing more than to take care of the doctor. It was a rare urge, but one he had come across before.

Garak pulled out a chair for his friend and waited until he settled down before he asked "What will I have the pleasure of serving you today?"

Garak's gaze had become playful and his demeanor held a hint of whimsy. The doctor gave him a grin.

"Some water and chicken pulao with a side of hummus, my good sir." He played along.

"Coming right up. Please take the time to peruse our desserts."

Garak put a PADD into his hands while Bashir gave his friend a grateful smile. At times like this, the doctor wondered why the whole universe had not befriended Garak. The tailor could be surprisingly thoughtful and attentive when he chose to be.

Bashir scrolled through the page left on the PADD to find a large databank of mystery stories for sale, complete with summaries and price listings. Most of the work was human, but with some Klingon and Romulan literature thrown in. He had to admit that he was stumped. Why had Garak told him to look through this? There did not seem to be anything on the list that the Cardassian would take an interest in.

The Cardassian came back, two trays perfectly balanced on his hands. He had the composed grace of an experienced waiter.

"Why, Garak, you really are a man of many talents. I don't think that even Quark has balance like that."

"Just keeping you on your toes. I can't have you getting bored with my variety of skills."

"I don't think there is anything about you that could be perceived as 'boring.' You truly are an enigma wrapped up in a riddle. It would take a Vulcan a hundred years to pry out your secrets."

The Cardassian gave him a disapproving look, setting down his trays.

"Why doctor, you flatter me and then you slander me. I would expect that my skill for secrecy would outlive at least one Vulcan lifetime."

"Indeed." Bashir was suddenly too busy eyeing the food to think up a witty reply.

"Don't wait on my account. Cardassians have the habit of talking so much that I could keep you from a meal for a week with stimulating conversation."

Bashir took that as permission to dig in without appearing to be rude. Undoubtedly Garak had observed his insatiable hunger.

"However, that does not mean you should inhale your meal. I'd hate to give you that 'Heimlich Maneuver' that you performed on yourself last year. I would have thought that you had learned your lesson."

The Cardassian was lecturing him on his eating habits again. Bashir had always had the habit of eating fast, a tendency he had developed while he was working on long, difficult projects.

"That was one time!"

"Once was quite enough for that performance. Your lips were turning blue. We were very newly friends and your wild flailing was a difficult language to interpret at the time."

Bashir chuckled, remembering what had been a frightening experience that had seemed comical in hindsight. Apparently, Cardassians could not easily choke. Garak had never been in the company of a Terran who had suffered a sudden block to the esophagus while dining. He had been at a loss about how to help Bashir, so the doctor had to help himself by applying abdominal pressure with his own fists.

After that incident, Garak had insisted on learning more about human biology to expand on what he had studied in the Obsidian Order. He knew how to assassinate a human, just not how many different ways there were to help or heal one. In turn, Julian had expanded his knowledge on Cardassian culture and their many mannerisms. There were a lot of things still kept from outworlders, like that crown mark ritual or even things like weddings, funerals, or their societal hierarchy.

After having his fill, the doctor glanced at the PADD he had set down at the table. Garak noticed his distraction.

"Have you picked something out yet?"

Bashir looked up, startled.

"I confess I don't really know what you meant by leaving me this."

"I would have thought it would be obvious." Garak frowned.

The doctor shook his head.

"Your birthday is next week. I wanted you to pick out a few of your favorite titles."

Bashir gave him a stiff smile. "Thanks Garak. It's a nice thought, but I can't read these."

The doctor flushed slightly, admitting this intellectual weakness to someone was fairly new to him. The tailor simply nodded as if he knew all about it.

"Yes, but you will be able to, and that is why I have come up with a compromise. If you can work towards reading one of these books, I promise you that I shall read it and forgo my usual criticisms during our discussion over it. I will also endeavor to find a replica of the story in holosuite format for us to enjoy later."

Bashir's mouth hung open in astonishment.

"Who are you and what have you done with Elim Garak?"

Garak smiled. "You may do a blood screening on me if you like."

Bashir chuckled.

"Thanks. I'm touched."

"Don't thank me yet, doctor. You still have to achieve your goal."

The doctor sighed.

"True."

When Julian's face became troubled, Garak shot him a look of concern.

"Why the disappointment? Is it too big of a step? Perhaps I should get a selection of shorter books."

"No, it's perfect, Garak." Bashir held up a placating hand. "I just haven't been feeling well enough to read lately. I had a temperature this morning and I think it might be coming back."

"Temperature?"

"A fever." He clarified.

Garak looked quite disturbed with this development, and for a good reason. Bashir rarely got sick. He never caught stationwide colds or influenza. When he did manage to become ill, it was either because something was attacking his genetic structure or simply because it was too powerful a disease to ward off. He had always considered himself lucky; being immune to diseases he had to treat was a gift he did not let go to waste. But now, the doctor was susceptible to every trifling sickness.

Bashir squinted at the PADD, highlighting the novels he thought looked interesting. The Cardassian continued to watch him as Julian bit his lip and concentrated on reading the brief book descriptions. The doctor was so careful and focused, as if he was performing delicate brain surgery instead of picking out what he wanted to read. When had Garak's bright, vivacious, and enthusiastic lunch companion become this worn, pitiable creature? Bashir looked so tired and strained. It reminded Garak of how he had looked when he had first joined the Obsidian Order under the command of Tain. His father had pushed him so hard, nearly to collapse. With those thoughts circling about in his head, Garak abruptly stood. Bashir jumped a little and looked up.

"Ah, I do remember that I must return to my shop soon for an appointment with a customer. I will walk you back to your quarters and drive away any Guls I see lurking about."

It was the Cardassian's polite way of socially maneuvering Bashir back to his rooms to sleep. It was not the most eloquent approach to see that his friend rested instead of wandering the promenade, but it would have to work. Bashir gave him a soft smile. It seemed that his concern had been too palpable to go unnoticed by the doctor.

"Good idea." Bashir handed back his PADD with two novels selected.

The books had elements of the doctor's favorite action adventure stories with James Bond-like heroes and villains. Julian normally chose works that were of a higher reading level, but he seemed to understand that he should start with something easily enjoyed. Subtleties in literature were still giving him difficulties.

Garak offered him a hand up again and the ventured through the busy promenade crowd. More Starfleet personnel were flitting about, going to their next shift. A familiar voice called to him.

"Julian!"

"Miles."

"Chief." Garak acknowledged.

"Oh. Hello, Garak. I was just on my way to Ops, but I have a few minutes."

"Ah." The tailor understood.

It seemed that the Chief wanted to have a discrete discussion with the doctor. If Julian had been ignoring him like he had been avoiding Garak, it was little wonder why they wanted to chat in private. Garak swept past them and ventured toward his shop.

"I expect to see you shortly after your latest recovery, doctor." The Cardassian added.

They waited until the tailor completely vanished into the crowd before O'Brien started to talk.

"I really think that you should go see Keiko- and what did Garak mean by 'your latest recovery?'"

"He meant that I've been a bit under the weather. Keiko has enough to do with keeping an eye on Molly."

Miles shrugged. "She's still a damn good teacher, and she has a lot of patience. I know that you like to learn from Dax or on your own, but every little bit helps."

Bashir sighed.

"Can we discuss this later? I just want to go sleep."

O'Brien surveyed him worriedly. Bashir must be feeling terrible if he refused to keep up a light conversation. Julian had changed so much this past week. The slim doctor was thin as a rail and he hunched over, looking as if a decent wind could blow him away. He seemed to be in desperate need of rest.

"Okay. I'll make sure you make it into bed and not on the floor. Come on."

Bashir found himself smiling. He had remembered a speech like that from his Irish friend last month when they had both gotten sauced. That had been one of their better nights. They had been on an emotional high from their holosuite adventure to which they toasted a victory towards the end.

Hand on Bashir's arm, O'Brien steered the sagging doctor through the hallways. Julian stumbled a couple of times as if he really had taken alcohol. Bashir's skin felt far too warm.

"You're burning up." O'Brien remarked.

"Burning up like a star in supernova." Bashir smiled. The heat of illness produced an effect similar to tipsiness.

"Oh God, now you're going silly on me. I need a few more drinks before I can handle you being annoying."

"You get silly too when you've had scotch. Well-I guess not very silly, but you do wax poetic now and then." Bashir informed him.

"I do not."

"And you get philosophical."

"That's not true."

"And you always tell me how much you like me."

"Julian!"

The doctor laughed and then winced when he felt his headache worsen. He was starting to really look forward to some painkillers when he got to his quarters. It had been a while since he had laughed this much, or had a genuine smile.

Perhaps he should have paid better attention to his friends while he recuperated. In their own ways they had all looked out for him. It was not because he was a genetic genius who saved their lives, or that he was a part of their work. To them, he was still the same person, with or without his genetic enhancements. Somehow, that made him believe that he could recover both physically and mentally from whatever life threw at him.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: The contents of this chapter do not reflect my thoughts or beliefs about religion. I am trying to adhere to character canon or what might be believed to be character canon. Several characters will express different sets of beliefs or thoughts. (Kira, for example)

* * *

O'Brien was a couple of minutes late getting to Ops, but the news he brought about the activities on the promenade pardoned him for his minor infraction. Their Dominion guests had been keeping to themselves, and after the brief negotiations they went back to their ships while Federation bureaucrats considered their case. Sisko was usually not the picture of tranquility when something like this was occurring, but he was more agitated than what would result from a brush with war negotiations and politics.

Sisko appeared harried to Major Kira. He had been in his office all day making calls and contacts, and then he had started to pace. It was rare for their beloved captain to get so worked up. The Major had sensed bad news was coming. She wanted it immediately so that she could be prepared for anything. The Major walked up to the captain's office and rang his door chime. Sisko admitted her.

"What's happened?" Kira asked with concern crinkling her brow.

"They're transferring Doctor Bashir."

Sisko's voice was dark, as if it was a fate much worse than it appeared. Kira had come to befriend the doctor and enjoy his company as well, but Sisko should understand that his men went where they were needed. Surely transferring Bashir was not such a dreadful event.

"Where to?"

"A Federation Medical Rehabilitation Center."

Kira's mouth opened in surprise. It was a little early for the doctor to be treating patients again, but he would no doubt have help.

"That's a little sudden, but I'm sure he'll make a great assistant."

"He's not being sent as an assistant or trainee. He's going there as a patient."

Kira frowned.

"But there's nothing physically wrong with him that we can't take care of here, and Jadzia is helping him read again. What more can they do for him at this facility? He'd be better off relearning everything here on the station."

Sisko nodded. "My thoughts exactly, Major, but Starfleet doesn't agree. In their minds, the prophets are just another religious and political symbol, not something tangible or omniscient. They think Bashir's report about the prophets taking away his abilities was a fantasy. They believe he's undergone some sort of mental trauma."

Kira did not appreciate the reminder of Starfleet's opinion about the prophets.

"What do they want, a holographic recording? The prophets are the only ones who can take away someone's abilities like that. How do they explain that he shrank several inches and thinned out within the span of a day?"

"I don't know how Starfleet Medical chooses to explain it, but they will not accept the will of the prophets as an answer."

Kira stared past the captain to the stars just outside. It all made a sort of horrible twisted sense to her. They were going to lock Bashir away because he was a witness, one who had spoken with the prophets in person. Starfleet wanted to believe he was lying. In their minds, nothing could possibly exist that was more powerful than their almighty Federation of Planets. Bashir was just a puppet, a victim of their ignorance.

"So are they just going to keep him there until he tells them what they want to hear?"

Sisko slowly nodded.

"But Dr. Bashir won't lie or make up a story. He's not that kind of man, even if it was for his own good." Kira said solemnly.

"Once again, Major, I agree. He is not that kind of man, which is exactly why we need him here. He doesn't deserve to be held in a facility because he disagrees with the Federation about the existence of prophets."

"Have you told Starfleet Medical that?"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Kira realized that she knew the answer. Of course Sisko had debated with them to keep Bashir on DS9. Sisko was just, fair, and he cared about how his officers and men were treated above all. The captain would have done his best to use his influence in Starfleet.

"I'll talk to a Vedic from the Bajoran temple and some officials I know in the new Bajoran government. They'll persuade the Federation to rescind the medical transfer. They'll fight for the rights of a believer."

"Is Dr. Bashir a believer?" Sisko asked skeptically. "No, I won't drag Bajor into this, even if Bashir became a Bajoran citizen. We must keep the peace and civility between Bajor and the Federation. We aren't in the position to strike a bargain with the Federation, even if we had the right people on the job. I don't think the doctor would want us to harm the potential for Bajor to become part of the Federation. There's nothing more either of us can do."

"Captain-" Kira frowned.

She sighed, tilting her head down.

"Do you believe that only his career is at stake?"

"No." Sisko admitted. "You've seen how he's been without his enhancements. Do you think he will keep on living a full and happy life off of Deep Space Nine surrounded by people who want him to lie?"

"I don't think he would be able to withstand it without doing something- reckless." It was odd for Kira to be using that particular word to describe a friend and not herself.

"There's something else, something Dax has been keeping quiet." Sisko continued hesitantly. "Bashir has been withdrawn since he's lost his genetic enhancements, and his health is more susceptible to viruses in his current state. We've been managing to disinfect everything here passably, but his biology is completely new to this environment. He doesn't have the right level of immunity or stamina to survive a major illness if he contracts one off the station."

"That's why you've been doing all those decontamination procedures on the docking ring and the promenade." Kira said, shocked. The captain had been doing his best to help his officer in his own way. Kira wondered if Bashir knew.

Sisko continued. "He's suffering from depression and he's learning the new limits of his endurance. To throw him into a new environment, especially a stressful one could be a fatal mistake. The Federation has been refusing to believe that he's lost his genetic enhancements, because it simply isn't a possible scenario. They'll test his limits as a way to distort his account of what happened."

Kira drew in a startled breath. She wanted to believe that Sisko was exaggerating, but she knew how stubborn the Federation could be. Those doctors and nurses would push Bashir to his limits when he was at his most fragile state, because they would be ordered to. She wanted to believe that their ethics would prohibit them from causing Bashir undue stress, but she knew that not everyone followed the same pure moral code Bashir did.

"Something may happen yet that will make the Federation change their mind, or they might be persuaded to send him back. All we can do is pray."

Captain Sisko said the words on a whim. It had seemed like the right sort of consolation to offer the Major. Kira froze, eyes darting back up to meet his gaze. The Major was suddenly hit with a wave of nostalgia. She remembered praying every chance she could before going to complete a mission for the Resistance. A prayer was often on the tip of her tongue while she lay in wait to sabotage machinery or steal back Bajor's resources that had been stolen from them first. The prophets had always led her to safety. The prophets had brought about this situation. Surely they could remedy it.

"Would you mind joining me for a prayer in the temple after dinner at Quark's? I owe it to Julian to ask the prophets for help on his behalf."

The captain looked up at her curiously.

"I owe him my life. He's saved all our lives and treated our wounded many times. I need to say a prayer for him, and having the Emissary with me would be appropriate." Kira informed him.

Sisko smiled.

"Why don't we pray in Quark's and have Dax join us? I know that she doesn't believe in the prophets, but she would probably like to join us for dinner. The more the merrier."

Kira appeared to consider.

"I think the prophets would appreciate that. We should invite the Chief too."

Sisko nodded. "I think he would be delighted to come."

Kira grinned, expression lighting up.

"Dinner at Quarks it is, and then a prayer."

"I've written several petitions to Starfleet headquarters and Medical, hopefully we won't have to rely on prayers alone to save his career."

"And him." Kira added.

"And him." Sisko agreed.

* * *

"What's all this? I thought there was just going to be the four of us." Sisko found at least eight individuals sitting at Quark's awaiting him.

Worf, Odo, Morn, Leeta, and Rom had looked up along with Dax, Kira, and O'Brien as he entered.

"I believe this makes 9 of us, captain." Garak strode in behind him.

"Mr. Garak!" Sisko turned to Kira, watching her for a reaction.

The Bajoran had just nodded with acceptance. The captain stared at the Cardassian with wide eyes. The tailor had been the last person he would have expected to meet here. Though it was possible that the Cardassian might have wanted to watch. Sisko did not know if Garak had a religion, but it made a strange sort of sense that if Garak had been willing to attend a ceremony of some kind, he would do it for Bashir's sake. The Cardassian's loyalty was unswerving once he formed an attachment. Sisko had seen that same sort of behavior around Tain, and it appeared Garak regarded Bashir with equal or superior affection.

"Make that ten." Jake wandered in and came up beside him. "Was the prayer circle your idea, dad?"

"It was the Major's."

"Why am I not surprised." Garak muttered under his breath as he sat down.

"How did Julian take the news about his transfer?" Dax had slipped up behind him.

"Not well." Sisko replied quietly.

She sighed, having expected as much.

Quark had come up to them, holding a tray of drinks.

"So, why the big party?"

"It's for Doctor Bashir."

Quark had nodded knowingly.

"If there's anyone that needs a party on his behalf, it's that poor kid. I thought he was going to drop dead in my bar whenever he visited. It looked like a decent wind could blow him away. What were they thinking transferring him?"

"He should have been given shore leave." Dax cut in.

"They said that they were going to question him?" Leeta looked around, biting her fingernails.

"Yes, about his report, because it sounded fishy." O'Brien took a swig of the root beer Quark had placed by his elbow. He was abstaining from alcohol before duty.

"Not everyone perceives the prophets as real. Of course they'll want to question him." Odo stated.

"It is dishonorable for the government to doubt the word of an ill or wounded warrior. If he were a Klingon military member, he would be sent to the familiarity of his family house and allowed to rest." Worf grumbled.

"Is it true that his life will be in danger if he is sent to a facility without regular decontamination procedures?" Odo asked Kira.

She nodded and Odo shook his head.

"Who oversees these transfers? Surely they will allow us to put Bashir in a safe facility?"

"I-I- don't think they should transfer him." Rom spoke up. "They're going to take away his doctor's license."

"What will he do then?" Leeta asked.

Garak had listened to these theories with an increasingly dismayed look creeping over his features.

"Doctor Bashir is going to be alright-" Sisko started to diffuse the situation.

"I beg to differ, captain. In fact, if he has any hope of survival he should be arrested and held in your brig so that Starfleet wouldn't have the chance to get their hands on him. I agree that one wrong virus introduced into his body could kill him at this point. He's just managing the basics of living. You must find a way to keep the Federation from obtaining him here." The Cardassian set down his glass of kanar with force.

"He's right, Benjamin." Jadzia added.

"We're not arresting anyone." The captain intoned firmly.

Quark shrugged. "Treat it like witness protection."

"That's only delaying the inevitable." Sisko took one of his usual drinks from Quark's tray.

"I don't think Julian would agree to that charade even if we asked him." Kira told them.

Sisko looked around at them all gathered there. It was surprising how many people Bashir had become friends with on this large station. Personal interactions were a rare commodity in Starfleet, yet the doctor had gotten to know each and every one of these individuals on a personal basis. He was a special man.

"I think that we should pray before we have dinner. Some of us have duty soon, and I wouldn't want that to interfere with our words to the prophets."

Leeta and Kira had grinned in response to this announcement and Garak had rolled his eyes. Quark had continued to linger by their table and watch curiously. He was anticipating a bit of a ruckus given how different all of these individual's customs were.

"Maybe we should all link hands. That is how Trills invoke rituals." Jadzia commented.

Jadzia had discussed with Kira how she was going to take part in this. She knew that this was important to Kira, so she was going to participate after her own fashion. Trills had their own beliefs and rituals, though Jadzia's scientific knowledge and Trill society did not always agree. Before anyone could make much of a protest, Jadzia had joined hands with Worf and Rom, and Leeta with Rom and Morn. The hand holding had continued around their group until it came to Garak, who kept his hands firmly to his sides. Jake held out his hand to him.

"I am a nonbeliever. It wouldn't be proper." Garak narrowed his eyes at the proffered limb.

"Then make a wish!" Leeta advised him. "Commander Worf isn't a believer but he'll make a wish for Julian to get better."

"Well," Garak murmured sardonically, "if _Worf_ can take part, then I suppose I can. But I am going to watch only. I'll let you have all the enjoyment."

He ignored Jake's efforts to include him. He shot a look at Kira, but the Major ignored him. The patrons at the bar had started to stare at them. They looked peculiarly out of place, holding hands and closing their eyes.

"What else is there to do?" Odo had his hand wrapped around Kira's. He was ignorant of how prayer or wishes were done, but he seemed comfortable by the Major's side.

"Just think about Julian and make a statement or a wish. You don't have to say it aloud. It doesn't have to be to the prophets if you don't want it to be." Kira smiled reassuringly at the security chief.

Leeta had started chanting her Bajoran prayer along with Rom. Morn was, for once, completely silent. Garak did not utter anything aloud, but watched them ponderingly. He was likely what humans would refer to as "agnostic," but that did not mean he could not appreciate the fact that all of these beings cared for Bashir. He thought that they should have held a party in his honor like humans were known to do, but he was not going to stop them at this point.

Worf started to make what sounded like a simple wish in Klingon. Dax joined him in the same language. Jake and Sisko murmured a prayer in very quiet standard. O'Brien's words sounded distinctly Gaelic. It was hard to distinguish if it was a prayer or a wish. He seemed stiff and uncomfortable with the proceedings.

The bar noises around them had died off, customers watching interestedly. Even Quark was quiet. They stayed like that for several minutes, waiting for the first one to break the circle. It was not any particular individual in their group that broke up the ritual, but rather an outside influence.

"Are you all praying?" Someone asked softly.

"Yes." Leeta turned to the curious interrupter to find the very man she was praying for staring at them.

"Julian!" Startled, her hands dropped from the circle, along with Worf and Miles. Both of the men looked embarrassed and they tried to act as if they had not been been a part of the event.

"Oh, I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just curious. I wanted to know why."

"That would defeat the purpose, Julian." Kira smiled. "Captain?"

Kira was startled to notice that Sisko had kept his eyes closed. Dax looked up at her friend, eyes wide as she watched Sisko continue in his trance-like state. After a moment more, he blinked his eyes open. His gaze immediately met the doctor's. A relieved look flashed over his features, along with an indiscernible emotion in his gaze.

"Doctor, we were just finishing up. Chief O'Brien has duty in ten minutes."

"I have duty soon too." Dax nodded at Sisko and walked hurriedly out of the door, Worf keeping pace with her.

Garak went to Bashir's side.

"What are you doing out on the promenade? You should be resting." The Cardassian admonished him.

"Those words sound eerily similar to the ones I told you after the incident with your implant."

At any other time the comeback would have been carefree and impish, but Bashir was distracted by many of his friends leaving the bar after the brief prayer session.

"Will someone please tell me why there was a big ceremony and I wasn't invited? And why were you here? You don't pray, at least as far as I know." Bashir turned to the Cardassian, eyeing him with suspicion.

"I don't, as a rule."

"Than what were you doing?" Bashir was growing agitated.

He noted that Sisko, Jake, Kira, and Morn had remained at a table and had started ordering dinner from Quark.

"Wasn't it obvious?" Garak smirked at him.

"Not really. Oh-oh no. Has someone died?"

The tailor gave him an unimpressed look.

"So no one died. That's good. The only other conclusion I can come to is that everyone was praying for me, and that's just ridiculo-" The doctor stopped abruptly.

The tailor had raised his eye rides with affirmation. Bashir's jaw dropped.

"But Worf was here, and Rom, and Morn. I don't understand."

"Major Kira arranged the event."

Bashir started to blink rapidly.

"You came here for me? Garak, I don't know how to-"

"Doctor, I was barely involved. I watched and nothing more. So please save your misguided gratitude for someone else."

"I still appreciate that you were here. I can't believe everyone would get together to pray for me in Quark's."

Garak looked hesitant.

"What is it?" Bashir frowned at him.

"I do believe Mr. Worf wished you an honorable death."

Bashir smiled. "Coming from him that's practically the epitome of affection."

Garak tried to lead them over to the bar to sit down but Julian stood stiffly.

"Sorry, but I don't think I'm staying. I just came here to-um-I guess I really don't know why I came here." Bashir seemed thoughtful.

The tailor sighed.

"Doctor, do you still have a fever? Are you, perhaps, hallucinating?"

Julian frowned, thinking.

"I don't think so. I just had a feeling like I wanted to walk here."

Garak looked as though he was not buying it.

"I'm going back to my quarters. I'm not going to go collapse on the promenade if that's why you're worried." Bashir assured him.

"Worried?"

"Yes. You've got to be the most chronic worrier I've met in a long time."

The tailor rolled his eyes.

"Hardly, doctor."

"Could you two argue somewhere else? You're blocking traffic." Quark butted in, carrying a large serving tray.

Garak stepped graciously back, letting the Ferengi through.

"Julian." Kira called him over where she was sitting with Jake and Sisko.

Garak gave him a smirk.

"Well, it seems that you are wanted here and I have some discreet business to conduct. Enjoy yourself."

Bashir grinned at him tiredly and Garak tried to return a faltering version of it back at him. That utterly exhausted look from Julian caused a sharp pang near the vicinity of his heart.

The Bajorans could keep those cruel prophets of theirs, the former spy thought. They were heartless bastards to have done this. Garak's blue gaze conveyed more emotion than he would ever allow himself to verbally express. Julian stared fondly back for a moment, a warm look in his eyes. They each turned and went their separate ways.


	8. Chapter 8

Bashir went to bed after having dinner with his friends that evening. His stomach was uncomfortably full, but his nausea had greatly lessened. He was tired, but also mentally buzzing with energy. No matter which way he turned under the covers he could not get comfortable. Yet, a smile kept on making its way over his features. The gesture that his friends had made in hope for his wellbeing had been touching.

His transfer to the Federation medical facility had shocked him. The dread that had filled him had lowered his spirits considerably. His good mood had started to fight with that dread once he found his friends hoping for his recovery. Try as he might, he could not banish that bright, warm feeling that had soared through him upon seeing Kira, Leeta, Rom, Garak, Morn, Sisko, Odo, Dax, Jake, and Worf.

Bashir's pleasant feeling of gratitude was accompanied by several thoughts. He remembered that he should have looked up Quark's theories about Klingon diseases. Quark had been paranoid last week that he had caught some sort of rare blood disease from Grilka, and Bashir was going to prove his worries were foundless. Then he remembered that he had promised Miles that they were going to try windsurfing in the holosuite since they had recently finished the kayaking program.

Maps, charts, diagrams, and numbers started flowing through his head. It was like something was slowly clicking into place. Trickles of information started flowing through his mind until the data flowed as smoothly as a brook, and then a river. He pulled up entire medical files in his brain, and then he started concentrating on personal memories. He had treated Sisko for a foot injury last Tuesday after Worf had stepped on him on the bridge of the Defiant. The Captain had laughed about the incident, saying that he had never seen a Klingon get so upset over a trifling injury. The Klingon Commander had been walking in between stations when he had sunk his full weight across Sisko's toes. Luckily, Worf hadn't broken any of them. He had just made their captain limp a little with mild bruising and swelling.

Bashir sat up abruptly. The room swayed around him and he nearly fell out of bed. With shaking hands, he reached for Dax's copy of Great Expectations. He flipped it open to a random page and skimmed the text. He had come to a part about Pip (or Handel, as he had been nicknamed) and Herbert discussing how Pip could accept his benefactor's extravagant treatment. Herbert was trying to help Pip come to a decision on the matter. Bashir had expected the text to swim in front of his eyes, or that the letters might start appearing garbled. He was able to read every word.

"_My poor dear Handel," he replied, holding his head, "I am too stunned to think."_

Bashir found that he could relate to Herbert's current shock.

"_So was I, Herbert, when the first blow fell. Still, something must be done. He is intent upon various new expenses,-horses, and carriages, and lavish appearances of all kinds. He must be stopped somehow."_

"_You mean you can't accept-"_

"_How can I?" I interposed, as Herbert paused. "Think of him! Look at him!"_

_An involuntary shudder passed over both of us._

"_Yet, I am afraid the dreadful truth is, Herbert, that he is attached to me, strongly attached to me. Was there ever such a fate!"_

Bashir was grinning gleefully. He had read the words quickly and efficiently. He also made a mental note to borrow the book from Dax later. It amused him whenever friends used terms of endearment with each other in literature. It reminded him of his friendship with Garak. The wording was so polite and austere.

Bashir started to feel physically better in addition to regaining his memories back. His stomach had stopped quaking and his headache had completely abated. He was still mildly tired, no doubt a side effect from regaining his genetic enhancements. He felt his smile widen when he thought that to himself. For whatever reason, he had his abilities back. Whether by the will of the prophets or by his body naturally reverting to this state, he no longer cared about the particulars. Bashir would not be transferred and his health would be restored. He got out his tricorder, confirming that the return of his genetic enhancements was permanent. He wanted to race out on the promenade and tell everyone that his abilities returned, but he knew that would be rude while considering the hour. The majority of his friends were fast asleep, save Odo. But Odo would not be as excited as Bashir. For now, Julian was going to ponder over the small miracle by himself. He would save the news until tomorrow.

Bashir hardly slept that night, but his new body hardly seemed to mind the mistreatment. As he was swept up with elation, he also felt some disquiet. He could not help but feel as if he had lost a piece of himself. Yes, he was grateful that his life and livelihood were no longer in danger, and he appreciated that he no longer had to learn things slowly. However, some small part of him had felt lost, swept under the rug forever.

Julian glanced over at Kukalaka. The bear sat next to him on the bed. It lay there, untouched. He had not spared a thought for the stuffed toy that night. He cast it a slightly apologetic look.

"It looks like I'll be neglecting you again, old chap."

He gave the bear one last touch, feeling the texture of the button eyes and the red felt mouth. He set the bear aside on a shelf. It looked like Julian would not become dependent on comfort for quite some time. Yet, when times grew harsh and days grew long, Kukalaka would still be waiting there.

* * *

"Garak!" A loud thumping noise sounded on the tailor's shop door. It was still an hour before the premises opened, but the impertinent doctor knocked on his door so loudly that the Cardassian thought he might break it.

The Cardassian came swiftly to the door, fearing an emergency. He flung it open to find the human beaming at him. The tailor was startled to find his personal space invaded by the happy Terran. Bashir took his palms in his.

"Garak!" Julian clutched at the Garak's hands like an excited child would.

The doctor had momentarily forgotten that such hand contact with a Cardassian was considered forward, but he was too swept up in his euphoria. The tailor stood there patiently, waiting for the excitable doctor to grace him with an explanation. The Cardassian had come to work that day still casually dressed in sleepwear. He had been about to change when Bashir had interrupted his peaceful morning.

"I have something to-what on Earth are you wearing?"

"Focus, doctor." Garak interrupted him.

Julian was startled into stuttering.

"O-oh. Y-yes I have something to tell you." His brow furrowed for a moment and he went silent again.

Garak's patience was wearing thin by this time. Seeing the dark look, Bashir gave him an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, but everything's coming so fast. My head's a bit jumbled. I think I need to sit down for a minute."

"By all means." Garak sighed and gestured over to a chair sitting near his mannequins.

Bashir practically hopped over to it and sat down with all of the dignity of an eager puppy. The doctor would not quit smiling. Garak found out, irritatingly, that his smile was becoming infectious. The doctor looked surprisingly well, almost healthy. The tailor noticed that the doctor's frame seemed fuller. Garak felt a temporarily overwhelming sensation of relief. Bashir was going to be alright.

"I'm myself again! I mean that I have all of my data and memories back and everything."

The tailor lifted an eye ridge.

"You mean you were not Julian Bashir before? Who was the imposter I had lunch with yesterday then?" The Cardassian said teasingly.

"You know what I meant. I have my genetic enhancements back."

"Ah." Garak said simply.

Bashir tilted his head to the side, looking put out.

"Aren't you-I don't know…happy for me?"

"Well, if you wanted them back, then I am overjoyed for you. Of course I am glad that you are no longer ill." The Cardassian reached out and patted him on the shoulder.

Bashir's brow furrowed.

"I wanted to know if you were happy about it, personally I mean. I would have thought you would be glad to have our literature discussions again."

Garak held up a finger. "Ah yes, but you would have gotten to that point given time."

Bashir stared at the tailor as if he had gone slightly daft. Surely Garak was relieved to have his friend back?

"I just thought you would be glad to have me back as I was."

"You never left." The Cardassian smiled warmly at him now. "Doctor, despite your genetic enhancements, you remain an intellectual man and a dear friend. I only feel delight in that your health has been restored and that you shall not be transferred. If you are content with how your mind is arranged, then I shall be content too. "

Bashir blinked owlishly at him for a moment.

"Now, if you don't mind, I would like to dress in more appropriate attire. Customers will be flocking through that door soon and I have a reputation to maintain." Garak reminded him.

Bashir smiled. The Cardassian's sleepwear was bright canary yellow with accents of orange and black. Bashir could not help but envision him as a large bumblebee.

"Do you always wear bright yellow pajamas?"

Garak scoffed.

"If you knew anything about matching skin tones with color then you would be aware that a pale yellow compliments very fair or grey skin. Now please run off to Ops and leave me to dress."

Julian chuckled, making his way towards the door. He was about to exit when Garak called him back.

"Oh, and Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"I know that it disturbs our weekly pattern, but I think we should meet for lunch today. That is, if you are not too busy."

Bashir grinned.

"I'll look forward to it."

* * *

Bashir's surprise birthday party that year was extravagant. Dax had outdone herself by finding the best food and entertainment. The Trill had always enjoyed a celebration, and she invited many to celebrate. She had invited Klingons, humans, and Bajorans in addition to their usual group of friends. Bashir honestly thought that people would stay away due to the recent public uproar about his genetic enhancements, but everyone that had been invited had attended the party in one of their larger staff rooms. It seemed that certain times called for jovial festivities.

Bashir had relaxed and enjoyed himself. He toasted a drink with Miles and regaled Kira and Sisko with the tale of his visit to the prophets. Garak was there, but the Cardassian kept to himself. The blood wine, champagne, and spring wine flowed freely. Julian had been stunned when they had given him a cake. Jadzia had never done a traditional human birthday celebration for him, and he had blushed to the roots of his hair when the Starfleet officers had burst into traditional song. The different species had stared on with baffled but happy expressions as Julian underwent the usual human acknowledgement of his birth. He blew out his candles, grinning the entire time.

A scuffling sound outside the staff room door had surprised them. Worf had arrived, and he carried a large covered parcel into the room. He underwent the direction of the other officers to avoid bumping the large rectangle on anything. The parcel was about the size of his painti-Oh no.

"I would like your attention please." Jadzia called.

"You heard her." Sisko barked and even the Klingons went quiet in response.

"On behalf of Bajor's historical and current archives of the arts I would like to announce that there has been a new holographic addition to their collection. Doctor Bashir's work was recently added to their collection of art by Terran painters. We have it available here in its original form and it can be viewed any time during business hours at Garak's Clothiers." Jadzia beamed.

"May we see it?" Sisko asked the doctor.

Bashir nodded and blinked dazedly.

It had been added to Bajor's archives? That was…nice. He did not know what exactly to say in response, but it seemed that he did not need to acknowledge it. Jadzia threw back the cloth cover, unveiling his painting. People started to clap, and Bashir received pats on the back. Julian overheard the other officers complimenting the colors and the architecture in his work. Yet, no one seemed to notice the color of the sky. The observation made him smile. It seemed that Garak really did know him better than he had thought.

Bashir received many flattering remarks about his artwork, even receiving several commissions to make more work. He had later exclaimed to Sisko: "I'm a doctor, not an artist!"

The festivities had wrapped up with opened gifts and more drinks and dancing. Julian could not help but smile. Genetic enhancements or no, he was still Julian Bashir. And it seemed that people loved him regardless of his abilities. Here on Deep Space Nine, he was among true, dear friends.

* * *

The End

* * *

Author notes: Illustrations for this fic are linked to my profile page. I told you that this story would be silly, but I love silliness. As always, thank you for reading. I don't have a beta and I am mildly dyslexic, so I hope my stories aren't too confusing. *hugs* Ta!


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